


A Study in Moriarty

by under_a_grey_cloud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_grey_cloud/pseuds/under_a_grey_cloud
Summary: This story follows "A Study in Being Non-Ordinary."It takes place a few months after the original story ended.Turns out I miss the characters, and they have more to say.As the title indicates, this story is more about Moriarty than Sherlock. After all, Moriarty is more talkative.





	1. Moriarty Returns

Moriarty had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life. That’s because he’d ended up in the worst life he’d ever had in his life. Natasha and Mrs. Hudson had moved in. Sherlock had moved out except for “sleepovers.” Moriarty was the head of a family.

 

_How the bloody hell did I end up as father of a family? How did I end up with all these people changing my life? I don’t want them here. How did Natasha end up my responsibility? How the hell did Mrs. Hudson end up living with me? How did Sherlock end up being reduced to a little kid having sneaky sleepovers? Quiet sneaky sleepovers, cause my daughter’s next door. It’s like bloody dominos. One thing changes and my life comes crashing down. How on earth did I let this happen? This is not me._

 

His doorbell rang. _Not another one!_

 

“Hello. You requested my presence?”

 

_Chao? The name that means excellent? Am I under a bad mood rising?_

 

“What the bloody hell are you doing here? This is my home. I **live** here.”

 

He ushered Chao into his door and slammed it shut behind them.

 

“Whatever made you think I want business contacts at my home? Why not wear a sandwich board that says “Killer. I work for Moriarty. Want to catch him? Follow me.”

 

“What is this “sand witch bored”? We do not have such a term in China.”

 

“Forget it. Who sent you here? Si? Named for ‘God has heard.’ Well he misheard. Get out, keep your bloody mouth shut, and never come back.”

 

Chao bowed. “My humblest apologies. I thought I come to say job is done. And get money.”

 

Moriarty took a deep breath. “Shut up. That’s what my phone is for. You’ll get your damn money. Same as always. **And** **stay OUT OF MY HOUSE!** I mean it. I see your bloody face again **and I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF!!!”** Moriarty escorted Chao out the door, with a punch in the back so hard that Chao was going to need serious healing when he got back to China.

 

Moriarty flopped down in his favorite armchair and blasted his favorite Bach throughout the house. He let out a deep breath. _Maybe I’ve died and gone to Hell. Not so bad. I can sit in a comfortable chair and listen to Bach for all eternity. What have I done to deserve this? Do they have nicotine gum in Hell? Doofus. It’s Hell. I’m already dead. They must have cigarettes here. If Hell doesn’t have cigarettes and coffee, then what’s, oh, I guess that’s the point. They probably taste like shit._

 

He held his head in his hands. Goose jumped into his lap. “Goose. You can stay. You speak Goose. But watch it, oh water foul of mine. If I hear one English word out of your beak, just one, I’m eating you for dinner.”

 

_Maybe I’ve died and gone to Heaven. I’m alone in my own home. I’m the only human here. Mrs. Hudson isn’t nagging me to stop being an idiot. Plenty of British parents send their kids to boarding school. And that’ll damn well be Mrs. Hudson’s job. Finding a school for Natasha and dealing with the bloody life of an eight-year-old. I did **not sign up** for this. Sir Dangerous is back and he is bloody hell **signing down. RIGHT NOW.**_

 

 _Emotions. Love. BIG MISTAKE. Psychopaths don’t have bloody emotions and I am a bloody **psychopath.**_ I miss Sherlock. He’s the only other person on earth who doesn’t have emotions. At least he won’t have to come for sleepovers anymore.

 

**Text:**

_can U come now?_

_as in NOW?_

_JM_

**Text:**

_I don’t no. Y?  
I’m sick of these sleepovers._

_SH_

**Text:**

_me 2_

_U cannot BELIEVE how sick of them I am_

_come when U want  
Long as it’s now_

_JM_

**Text:**

_What happened?_

_SH_

**Text:**

_Tell U when U get here_

_JM_

**Text:**

_Sounds intriguing_

_C U soon_

_SH_

 

 _Good. Mrs. Hudson will be here soon. Since we’re a **family** now, we will have a **family** meeting. Except I don’t give a fuck what the other _family _members want. It’s my house. I make the decisions. Sir Get Out of Hell Free._

 

Moriarty chewed three pieces of nicotine at once, managed to convince his coffee maker that fighting back was useless, then decided on scotch instead. A cheaper scotch, Glenfiddich, since half of his Glenlivet was thoroughly cleaned from his rug but was still gone. He was not exactly looking forward to a family meeting and decided a bit of lubrication would help.

 

He walked over to his liquor cabinet, jumped so his hands were grabbing on, and found himself in a useless position. _Not the bloody stepladder again. I have to re-arrange my liquor cabinet. Natasha still won’t be able to reach it one row down. Natasha. Why am I thinking of Natasha? She’s going to be gone._ Moriarty got the Stepladder of Shame and reached for the Glenfiddich. It was still really hard to reach. When he finally got it, it was the wrong bottle. _What? I need to buy a painter’s ladder now? I’ve been bloody shrinking? Oh._ He noticed the Stepladder of Shame standing beside him. It didn’t work when he wasn’t standing on it. He tried again and had a lovely view of all his liquor. Of which there was a lot. “Good.”

 

He took the bottle he wanted, stepped down and forgot he was on a stepladder. He managed to catch his foot under a step, and fell over. This time he clutched the bottle to his chest. The bottle survived. It was dubious whether Moriarty survived. He felt like someone had set his leg on fire, and stepped on the fire to put it out on his lower back. He thought he had some pain pills in the bathroom from an old surgery. He stood up and immediately fell back on his bottom. Which was embarrassing, but his leg hurt like hell. His back wasn’t too happy either. The only way he could stand was by leaning on the stepladder. _“Oh goodie. I need a bloody walker now.”_

 

He took several minutes to get across the plush carpet using the step-walker. _Fuck pile carpets. I need lino._ Step, rest, push step-walker, step, rest, push step-walker, try not to fall over, pull himself up step by step when he did, and repeat. Preferably without falling over. What seemed like a few hours later, he entered his bathroom. The medicine cabinet was within reach. _Please. Please. Please be there. For the love of God, or Lucifer, be there._ He was in luck. A big bottle of oxycodone, nearly full, and only two years old. _Thank you, Upstairs or Downstairs deity._ The pills were tiny. The first pill spilled in the sink, where it dissolved. The next two spilled on the floor, which he left there until he saw Goose pecking at them. Moriarty sighed and shooed her away. He lowered himself to his bottom, picked up and swallowed one of the pills, and tried to slide the other pill out from the grout between his lovely Italian tiles. _This would be a piece of cake with a pair of tweezers. Or goddamn lino_. He looked longingly up at the medicine cabinet, then resumed trying to push the pill out of the grout. He was getting sweaty from the exercise, and the pill stuck to his finger. He lifted it up and licked it off. He could just manage putting the bottle back on the sink cabinet. But Natasha could reach it there. _STOP THINKING ABOUT NATASHA_. Natasha was very responsible and would never take his pills. Especially if she didn’t live here. He hoisted himself back up the Stepladder of Shame and began the long hike back to his armchair and whisky.

 

Sherlock happened to let himself in while Moriarty was dragging himself back to his armchair. Over the carpet, in which the step-walker kept getting caught. Sherlock burst into laughter so hard he could barely breathe. Moriarty sat down in his armchair, realised he’d left the bottle of scotch by the liquor cabinet, and almost started to cry. His leg was in so much pain he could barely think straight. He needed the Glenfiddich because it started working immediately.

 

“What on earth happened?”

 

“Fetch me that bottle of scotch on the floor, would you, darling?”

 

“Can’t get it yourself?” Sherlock had an evil grin on his face.

 

“Maybe in an extremely painful half hour. Just fetch it, sweetums. NOW.”

 

Sherlock brought over the whisky and accidentally touched Moriarty’s hurt leg.

 

“OWWWW! Be careful, doofus.”

 

“You’re welcome. What happened? Should I take you to hospital?” Sherlock sat down in the other armchair. Moriarty looked like he was about to pass out.

 

“You’re a Consulting Detective. Deduce it, idiot.”

 

“You wanted a bottle of scotch so you walked to your liquor cabinet and tried to get one. Which would be easy for me. I can’t understand why you’ve put the shelf too high for you to reach. “Top shelf” liquor would taste the same from a lower shelf. You fetched your stepladder, got the bottle, then, knowing you, forgot you were on a stepladder and stepped down to the floor. You caught your foot under a step, twisted your leg, and fell down on your coccyx. Given that you’d misjudged by at least 50 centimeters, probably 45.72, the standard length of a stepladder, you unexpectedly landed very hard on the floor, damaging your leg and back. From the marks in the carpet, it seems (Sherlock tried hard but unsuccessfully not to laugh) you used the stepladder as if it were a walker, and entered your bedroom. A normal person would then lie down in bed, but knowing you, I imagine you made it to your bathroom for painkillers. Which you took but they haven’t worked yet, which means had I arrived ten minutes earlier-“

 

“Fifteen,” Moriarty grunted.

 

“However I did not. You continued to use the stepladder as a walker, sat down in your armchair, and realised you’d left the whiskey by the cabinet. Fortunately your knight in shining armour arrived and fetched it for you. The top is still sealed and the pills obviously haven’t worked yet.”

 

“You nailed it. That’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

 

“Of course. Hardly worth solving.”

 

Sherlock opened the bottle and handed it to Moriarty, who almost dropped it. He took a huge swig, made a horrible face, and took another full swig. This time he began to get some color back in his face. He took one more swig, looked for a place to put the bottle where he could reach it, and his loving sleepover-friend pulled out the side table so it was flush against the chair.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Goose jumped on Moriarty’s lap and he screamed and fell over, face to knees. Goose disappeared. He sighed, dragged himself up by his arms, and lay back, covered with sweat.

 

“Ottoman?”

 

“Yes, please. Though I haven’t the faintest how I’m going to get my foot up there.”

 

“Did you know that if you look hard through your window using only your peripheral vision, you can see the London Eye-?”

 

“OWWWWWW!”

 

“I figured the best way to move your leg was to distract you. Of course you can’t see the London Eye from your window. Jim? Jim?”

 

Moriarty lifted his hand up for a moment, concentrated on breathing, and slowly leaned back in his chair.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yes. Good idea, ottoman. Alcohol is kicking in. Pills, not yet. Can you fetch me the pill bottle?”

 

“Since I seem to be your maid, may I remove my trousers pants, and don the women’s pants and frilly black little apron I found in your disguises?”

 

Moriarty glared. Sherlock fetched the pills.

 

Moriarty poured some in his hand and swallowed them.

 

“Those are really good pills, you know, Sherlock added. “Rich man’s heroin.”

 

“No you can’t have any. They’re mine. I need them.”

 

It was difficult for Sherlock to make a puppy dog face with his small narrow eyes, but he did his best.

 

“Fine. You can take two pills. Two.” Sherlock immediately opened the bottle, removed some pills, closed the bottle tightly and put it back on the side table.

 

“Show me your palm.”

 

Sherlock frowned, showed Moriarty the two pills, and swallowed them. Then he sat back down in the other armchair.

 

“You can keep the others you hid but no more than two.”

 

Sherlock shook his arm and four more pills rolled out his sleeve. He gave them to Moriarty.

 

“Jesus, Jim. Did you hide entire bottle on your body? Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

 

“That leg looks pretty bad. You sure you don’t want me to take you to hospital?”

 

“I’m sure I don’t want to move.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson is going to insist, you know. In fact why am I suddenly welcome in the middle of the school day?”

 

“As you so cleverly deduced, Natasha is in school and Mrs. Hudson is probably running errands or giggling with a friend till Tash comes home. I mean Natasha. She’s lost the right to a nickname.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“What’s going on? Oh, not much. I just happen to be getting just a teensy bit sick of running an **entire bloody family IN MY HOME!”**

 

“Not that I’m an expert, given the girl despises me, but Natasha seems quite attached to you.”

 

“Yes and she bloody hates you and I’m tired of having to sneak my lover in and out on sleepovers. It’s my bloody house. I can do what I want in it. Whenever I want to. Also, I don’t need a nanny. Mrs. Hudson is getting on my nerves. Not bad as an occasional neighbor, total failure as a live-in nanny.”

 

“So what are you going to do about it?” Sherlock rocked back and forth comfortably in his chair, making Moriarty irrationally furious.

 

“Boarding school. Send Natasha and Mrs. Hudson on holiday to interesting places that aren’t my home.”

 

Sherlock leaned back as far as the recliner would go and tented his hands on his chest. Moriarty groaned and took a few more pills. After a while he was afraid his pills had put Sherlock to sleep.

 

“Hey idiot.”

 

No response.

 

“ **SHERLOCK!”**

 

“No need to scream.”

 

“Apparently there is, since you didn’t respond the first time.”

 

“I respond when my name is called.”

 

“Idiot. What time is it?”

 

“15:02. Maybe 15:03.”

 

“Damn. Natasha’s going to be home soon. I can’t have a family meeting like this.”

 

“You’re not at your best.”

 

Moriarty pitched his voice high. “Reeeealy? You think?”

 

“If you let me take you to hospital, you’d avoid the problem.”

 

“Hospital’s going to give me X-rays, a cast, and paracetamol. Not worth the cost.”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“Toss the paracetamol. It’s useless. The X-rays and cast might help.”

 

“I’m not walking downstairs with my Step Ladder of Shame.”

 

“Step Ladder of Shame. Good one. But that’s what ambulances are for. Jim. Jim?”

 

Jim’s pills had apparently taken effect. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

 

Sherlock called for an ambulance, and Moriarty, had he been awake, would have been delighted that the ambulance beat Mrs. Hudson and Natasha home.

 

Sherlock told the medics to take them to London Bridge Hospital. He seriously doubted Moriarty would want to go to a strictly NHS facility. The medics were very careful but still jarred Moriarty and made him squint his eyes in pain. He was put on a stretcher and given a cervical collar. The ambulance drove over approximately 10,000 large stones, potholes, and walkways which required sudden stops. At least it felt that way to Moriarty. Every move shot pain through his leg.

 

When they reached the hospital, Moriarty was transferred to a wheeled gurney. He tried desperately not to shout out in pain but when his left leg was lifted, he couldn’t help a small yelp. He was wheeled into an elevator into the ICU at Guy’s Hospital. _I thought I was at London Bridge. Oh well._ As soon as he was deposited in his room, a couple of extremely sadistic workers stuck in an IV and attached him to various machines. His chest was full of round sticky circles, also attached to a machine. Moriarty nearly fainted from the pain of the IV.

 

“IV Morphine 5 mg.”

 

Though this was a high starting dose, it had very little effect on Moriarty.

 

“IV Morphine 10 mg.”

 

Moriarty was now able to make facial expressions other than a grimace. He was also able to talk.

 

“Can I have some morphine? This leg is bollocks.”

 

“We’ve already given you 15 mgs. And you leg still hurts?”

 

“Brilliant deduction. That’s why I asked for morphine.”

 

His dosage was increased to 75% short of fatal.

 

“Ahhhhh. Much better. Why didn’t you start me on this level?”

 

“Because most people would have passed out and had trouble breathing on this dosage.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Whatever you say. Just keep me on this dose, ok?”

 

“We’ll do better than that.” They fussed around with some equipment and handed Moriarty a plastic push button. “You can press this every 7 minutes, and your dosage will be increased within safe intervals. It’s calibrated so it’s impossible for you to take too much. If you push and nothing happens, wait a few minutes and try again. Sometimes seven minutes can seem like a long time.”

 

Moriarty’s eyes glazed over. “What happens next?”

 

“Is the morphine helping now?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“A doctor will be by soon to check on you.”

 

“Am I in Guy’s hospital or The London Bridge? Or am I hallucinating, in which case please lower the painkillers.”

 

“No need. You’re in both. Guy’s is a private hospital within St. London’s. Your chart says you requested it.”

 

“I did?”

 

“I did,” Sherlock butted in. “You were in no shape to speak rationally. I assumed that since you make a point of buying the most expensive everything, you would want the most expensive care.”

 

Meanwhile Moriarty looked around. The ICU stalls were each almost separate rooms. There were several comfortable-looking padded chairs for Sherlock. The walls were painted a lovely shade of taupe. The overhead light didn’t make the room look like an operating theatre. The room was large and private; no inadvertent listening in on other patients through closed “privacy” curtains.

 

“Thank God for private hospitals. And morphine.”

 

Although even private hospitals take time. Moriarty’s finger was getting tired of pushing the morphine button by the time a doctor came in _. Finally._

 

“So tell me what happened.”

 

“Do I have to? It’s rather humiliating.”

 

“I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

 

“I fell off a three-tiered step ladder and got my foot stuck. I managed to twist my leg and bang it really hard on the carpet. I landed on my butt. Gave my back quite a shock but the leg wins.”

 

“We’ll need X-rays of your leg and lower back. Maybe some more tests. That should proceed fairly quickly, since you’re in Private Care.”

 

Four hours later, Moriarty had been through several machines, including one that sounded like a pile driver. While awaiting test results, he was taken back to his private room at GUY’s, which was spacious and sunny, with a lovely view. He was attached to a new IV, and new apparatus was attached to his body. He no longer had his little push-button device, but clearly something was in the IV other than saline water. A different doctor visited his this time, and gave Moriarty the bad news. His femur, while not broken, had several hairline fractures that needed attention. He needed at least one operation for his leg. He also had herniated his 5th lumbar vertabra, which contributed to the leg pain. All in all, as can be said of anything under and including the sun, it could have been better; it could have been worse.

 

Moriarty immediately wanted out. A spot in the Operating Room was reserved for the next day. Probably unnecessary for hairline fractures. The herniated disc; he’d had them before and with sufficient pain medication, he got by. He could deal with the surgery as an outpatient. And a knock to his coccyx wasn't going to kill him.

 

When the room was empty of hospital staff, Moriarty told Sherlock to take him home. “Hairline fractures. Herniated disks. Bollocks. The only reason I’m scheduled for an operation is because I’m in this incredibly expensive hospital and they want to check everything. Hospitals take forever, even posh ones.” Then immediately said “Damn! I forgot all about Natasha and Mrs Hudson. We were going to have a family meeting. Which they don’t know about yet but it’s still happening. It’s not their fault they live with me and I want them out. I don’t particularly want them worried to death. Can you reach my phone and call them?”

 

Sherlock took the phone off the side table and called Mrs Hudson. True to Moriarty’s word, she was indeed almost worried to death. She’d called all the posh hospitals she could think of, but asked for Jim Moriarty. Who was registered exactly nowhere. Moriarty thought it best not to use Jim Price again. He told Sherlock to sign him in with his loft name, because that’s where the bills would come, whatever name they were under. Sherlock signed him in as Jim Howard. Mrs Hudson scoffed at this, and said that whatever his name was, she and Natasha had been worried sick. Natasha had finally cried herself to sleep. Mrs Hudson was not pleased. She announced that the two of them were arriving the next morning.

 

“He might be in the Operating Room by then. He’s definitely going to need surgery.”

 

“Tell Mr _Howard_ I don’t care if he needs to hang upside down in physical therapy. You can also tell him he’s selfish, a terrible father, and a worse friend.” Sherlock heard the sound of a telephone being slammed shut.

 

“Looks like the rest of your family is coming tomorrow, Jim. I’d steer clear of Mrs Hudson. She sounded like a teacher punishing a student for writing silly things on the blackboard.”

 

“Natasha?”

 

“Cried herself to sleep.”

 

_Shit. I don’t hate the kid. I love her. I just don’t want her living with me. Oh bloody hell why is this turning into such a clusterfuck._

 

Moriarty pressed the nurse’s button to ask for more painkillers. A nurse showed up almost immediately with four oxycodone tablets in what looked like a tiny muffin cover.

 

“Don’t think this is going to cut it,” Jim muttered.

 

“One of those is oxycontin. Forty milligrams of oxycodone, which are extended release over twelve hours. Give these a try. They might help you sleep. We’ve given you more than the usual dosage, because the ICU noted you have a high tolerance for painkillers. You don’t take street drugs, do you?”

 

“Hell no.”

 

“Good. Just ring if you need me. I'll leave now.”

 

Moriarty’s body and brain were in so much pain he wanted to leave himself. Instead, he and Sherlock played Kill, a version of 20 questions they’d made up. It was fun. They were still at it an hour later when the nurse stuck his head in to check on Moriarty.

 

“How’s the pain?”

 

“Not so bad. That extended relief stuff really works.”

 

“Okay then. Great. Someone will check in on you soon.”

 

_I hope not._

 

Moriarty’s fears turned out to be wasted. The painkillers let him sleep though just about anything. Though he did notice when Sherlock very gently snuck into his bed, and tried to hold him in a way that would not cause agony. He succeeded. In fact, had his head been turned to Moriarty, Sherlock might have noticed a small smile.


	2. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's "family" visits him in hospital.
> 
> All does not go well.

 

 

Moriarty had just been transported from the Recovery Room to his own room. He had no idea if the Guy’s Recovery Room was worth the extra money, because he had very little memory of being there. He vaguely recalled a huge blurry face and the sensation of his gurney being moved. Everything was wonderful. The big blurry face was wonderful, like a sweet and caring Mrs Hudson. The movement of his gurney was wonderful, like a child’s ride in an amusement park. Life was wonderful.

 

Of course the reason life was wonderful is that Moriarty was given a very heavy dose of anesthesia and a very heavy dose of pain medicine because his chart indicated a high tolerance for narcotics. The very heavy medication caused a very light-headed Moriarty. When he returned to his room, he could have been attached to a device for every plug in hospital and he wouldn’t have minded.

 

“You don’t look so bad.”

 

Sherlock had actually been a bit worried, knowing the exact statistics of everything that could possibly go wrong during Moriarty’s operation. Sherlock had also not been overly worried, knowing the very small likelihood of anything going wrong during the operation. Still, he was glad to see a physically intact Moriarty. Mentally intact was another story.

 

“Sherlock! It’s so lovely to see you! I’d say I missed you, but I also missed myself, so it’s hard to say. How long was I gone for?”

 

“About four hours for surgery and a record hour in the Recovery Room.”

 

“Ahh. The Recovery Room. Such a lovely place, such a lovely face.”

 

“Mine?”

 

“Everyone’s.”

 

“You are high out of your mind. I suppose it’s useless to talk to you now. But I have information. Can you listen?”

 

“To what? The sound of all these machines is so entrancing. Like a Mozart quartet. Or quintet. Or infinite-tet. Were you saying something?”

 

Sherlock did not appreciate the sound of the machines. They were dissonant and distracting. However even he was above searching through the bag of Moriarty’s clothing, looking for the bottle of oxycodone he’d brought with just in case. He’d have to wait till he got home to look for one of his more serious stashes if the need arose. Moriarty was drooling. Not an attractive incentive to go home and get high. But where exactly was home? Moriarty’s penthouse? Moriarty’s bed? Sherlock’s little bedroom that belonged to Natasha? Or 221B?

 

First things first.

 

“Jim. Listen to me. This is important.”

 

“Did I just see a cloud fly by the window? What a wonderful means of transportation. Clouds. I wonder why they’re not used more often?”

 

“JIM. **JIM.** Try to listen to me. I have something very important to tell you.”

 

“Oh, please do. Your voice is so deliciously melodic. Would you sing for me?”

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock heard approaching female voices. Too late. Moriarty’s family descended on Sherlock.

 

     “Sherlock? What did the doctor say? Is he going to be okay?”

 

     “Daddy, there aren’t enough chairs. Where am I supposed to sit?”

 

     “Sherlock darling, could you be so kind as to wipe the drool off my face?”

 

“Mrs Hudson. Yes. Natasha. Floor. Jim. No. Do it yourself.”

 

Surprisingly, they all shut up and performed their tasks as ordered.

 

Sherlock began to understand very well why Jim wanted a family meeting. He was tempted to have the meeting right now, but he knew Jim would kill him, perhaps literally, if he were unable to defend himself. It was Jim’s meeting, after all.

 

“Daddy! You’re okay! I was so worried about you.“

 

Natasha ran toward her father and jumped up on his bed to hug him. The pressure of her body made Moriarty shout in pain. “Not on the bed, Nash. I mean Nasha. Tashata. Is that right? Whatever. Please don’t use my bed as a trampoline. It hurts.”

 

“Sorry, Daddy. Why did you forget my name?”

 

Natasha returned to her comfy seat with tears in her eyes. Sherlock was sprawled in the other chair, ignoring everything and taking in everything.

 

“He’s high on drugs, Natasha. Ignore him.” Sherlock ought to know.

 

“Jim!” _Mrs Hudson. Shit._ “If you can’t remember your own daughter’s name, I think you’re on too much medication. Shall I call the nurse to lower it?”

 

“No. Pain.”

 

A vague feeling of unease tried to penetrate Moriarty’s brain. _Leave it. Too much trouble to think._

 

“Are there two of her too?”

 

“Two of who?” The ordinarily bright Natasha was confused.

 

“You and your doubles. Wait. There’s only one of you each now. Definite improvement for Mrs Hudson.”

 

Mrs Hudson glared at him.

 

“Natasha. You get your bottom out of that chair right now. It’s very poor manners to sit while an adult is standing. Especially an adult with a hip.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” Natasha got up and Mrs Hudson sat down as if they were playing musical chairs.

 

“Thank you, dear. This is lovely. In fact, this entire room is lovely. Look at how clean those blinds are. And it’s so spacious. And colour-coordinated! Definitely nicer than the NIH rooms.” That last was accompanied by a sour glance at Moriarty, who missed it entirely. His eyes were half-closed and a smile graced his mouth.

 

Natasha looked longingly at Mrs Hudson’s chair. Sherlock hadn’t specified where on the floor she should sit. The room may be nice but a lino floor was a lino floor. It hurt her tailbone. She began to inch over till she was almost leaning on the chair, between Mrs Hudson’s feet.

 

“Don’t you dare.” Mrs Hudson was using her very scary tone of voice. “Move or I’m going to rest my feet on your shoulders.” Natasha moved.

 

At this point a nurse came in to check on Moriarty. First, she assessed the seating situation.

 

“It appears you need another chair. I’ll be right back.”

 

True to her word, the nurse returned pushing a recliner. She set it in an unused corner. Natasha got up and ran toward the recliner, but was stopped when Mrs Hudson said “Don’t even think of it. What is wrong with you, child? Help me up. My hip.”

 

“I can do that, mum.” The nurse helped Mrs Hudson from the chair to the recliner. She did not notice anything wrong with Mrs Hudon’s hip, but declined to comment.

 

“Thank you. What a thoughtful young woman,” she said, glaring at Natasha, who was curled up in the other chair crying, trying to hide.

 

“Oh honey,” the nurse said to Natasha. “Your dad’s going to be ok. Everyone’s on edge from being in the hospital. Don’t worry. It will all be back to normal in no time. Would you like some juice?”

 

Natasha shook her head, no.

 

“OK. Your turn.” The nurse headed toward Moriarty.

 

“For one thing, you don’t need nearly so much of this anymore.” The nurse turned off most of the pain meds that had been dripping through the IV. She then started to inspect Moriarty’s leg, which was interrupted by his scream.

 

“Yowwwwwww! What the hell are you doing to me?! You’re bloody killing me. And what did you do to the pain meds? Everything hurts. Is that why I pay extra for extra good care? So I can die extra fast from pain? Give me some pain medicine or I’m calling that number on the wall.”

 

Guy’s patients were treated to a direct line to one of several hospital care supervisors.

 

“If you don’t turn it up right now, my friend will also call on his cell and I’ll use this bloody phone at the same time. Two complaints for the price of one. Ow. Why the hell do your phones weigh 5 kilos?”

 

“Please turn off your cell phone, sir. It interferes with the monitoring and testing devices.”

 

“I’m aware. It’s already off. I can’t help it if my friend with the leg there is a moron.”

 

“You try getting your leg all but cut off without any painkillers.”

 

“Your leg looks fine. You were asleep, Jim. It’s impossible to feel pain during sleep. The brain shuts down the neurotransmitters so-“

 

“I can go outside the room and use my cell, Daddy,” Natasha interrupted, shy and scared.

 

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s not the machines in my room they’re worried about. It’s the big expensive testing machines outside.”

 

Natasha, Mrs Hudson and the nurse spoke in a neat row.

 

     “Daddy, why are you so mad at me?”

 

     “Jim Howard. That’s no way to talk to your daughter.”

 

     “If you’re still in pain, I can give you some painkillers.”

 

“Well go ahead then and fucking turn them up to eleven.”

 

“I just increased your dosage. Do you feel less pain?”

 

“Yes,” Moriarty whispered in a nasty tone of voice.

 

‘May I take a look at your leg now?” Staff were taught that patients in pain are often unpleasant, but this nurse had to bite her tongue to avoiding telling Moriarty to shut up. Still, the man was in legitimate pain. He nearly howled every time the nurse moved his leg.

 

“You know it’s not just addicts who have a high tolerance for painkillers,” Moriarty told the nurse while glaring at Sherlock. “Some people are born that way. If I have to tell every single employee in this hospital that “high tolerance for narcotics” means “high tolerance for narcotics” then call the walk-in clinic and tell them to stock up on eye bandages.”

 

“You seem to be doing fine.” _Your attitude could use some improvement. Maybe I’ll ask a doctor to order some Haldol for you. Better yet, Ambien._ “I’ll leave the pain meds as they are and leave a note on your chart. Darn it, does anyone have a highlighter?”

 

Natasha and Mrs Hudson both said “I do!” Sherlock had one too, but he saw no reason to bring this to anyone’s attention.

 

“Thank you. Alright, Mr Howard. See how I’ve highlighted this part? ‘Patient has high tolerance for narcotics and low tolerance for pain. No drug-seeking behaviour detected. Please prescribe accordingly.’ Now you’ll be all set.”

 

“Amazingly enough, I can read, determine highlightered test, I mean highlighted test, no, highlighted text, um, what was I saying? I’m not a bloody addict and my leg still hurts.”

 

 _Maybe, but you’re brain’s sure fried,_ thought the nurse.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr Howard, but it’s neither possible nor desirable to reduce your pain level to zero. Pain is our body’s way of telling us that something’s wrong. In your case, it might only be telling us you’ve just had an operation. Or it might be telling us you need further care, or more pain medication. It’s not a simple ‘yes/no’ question.”

 

“Here’s a simple yes or no question. Will you get the bloody hell out of my sight?”

 

The nurse had reached her limit. She’d never had to deal with a psychopathic patient in the past. But she had good instincts. She turned her back and walked out the door. _Remember, the nice patients aren’t worth more attention than the nasty ones. Maybe I should put in a request to leave Guy’s and work downstairs in the NHI clinic. Rich people can really be a pain in the ass._

 

 

___ ~ ___

 

 

The atmosphere in Moriarty’s room reflected the atmosphere in his brain, as well as outdoors. Rain was slamming against the windows and reflected in the mirrors and metal machines inside the room. Mostly, though, Moriarty was majorly pissed off and wanted to be alone with Sherlock. He pretended to be asleep, which was useless because he could hear Mrs Hudson reprimanding Natasha and Sherlock, and worrying about Moriarty. He was trying to drift off when he suddenly sneezed. The oxygen tubes fell out of his nose and his entire body shook with pain. He put the tubes back in and waited out the pain.

 

“Everyone, could you please **SHUT UP?** I’m trying to get some rest here and I can’t do it with you all badgering each other about me.”

 

“Well. If that’s how you feel about it. Natasha, let’s see what they have to offer in the cafeteria. I think it’s best we leave your _father_ alone.”

 

As soon as they got up, Sherlock made a beeline for the recliner.

 

“That’s mine when we return,” Mrs Hudson told him in no uncertain terms.

 

Natalie looked at her father and he seemed so angry and miserable that she started to cry.

 

“I’m gonna be fine, kid. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to cry about.”

 

“But Daddy...”

 

“I’m starving, Natasha. Come with me and get something to eat.” Mrs Hudson attempted to slam the door behind her, succeeding only in starting a slowly weighted voyage from open to closed.

 

When they were finally alone in the room, Sherlock uncharacteristically asked “Aren’t you being a little hard on them?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“You know you’re not the first person in this hospital to suffer pain. Hospitals are noted for it.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Even if you don’t want to live with them, there might be some benefit in remaining on speaking terms with Natasha and Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Sherlock walked over to Moriarty’s complicated pain relief device, took note of the setting, and turned it down to zero. A minute later Moriarty screamed.

 

“Why the hell did you do that? Fix it!”

 

“Because you’re being such a bitch. Why should I?”

 

“Do you want me to scream non-stop till some hospital idiot comes in and I complain that you were messing with my drugs?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“WHAT?!”

 

“How about if I restore your medication and leave you alone?”

 

“Fine.” Moriarty didn’t mean “fine” at all. He meant “please don’t leave” but wasn’t about to say it.

 

“I can see why you want a family meeting. I shall be in attendance. Goodbye.”

 

“Wait! Aren’t you coming back?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“please don’t leave,” Moriarty whispered.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I said ‘Please don’t leave.’ Can you possibly stay here with me? I hate being in hospital alone. Pleeeease?”

 

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead and sat back down in the recliner.

 

“Just checking.”

 

“Idiot.”

Another doctor arrived and told Moriarty that he was doing better than expected. He didn’t need any pins or devices, everything in his ankle was now set in the correct position, and his swelling was significantly down. In fact, someone would be coming in shortly to cast his ankle and leg and teach him how to use crutches. He had a herniated disc, which accounted for some of the leg pain, but didn’t require further treatment. He should return to the clinic next week for a check-up.

 

“Can we go now? I can lean on you as a cast.”

 

Sherlock didn’t bother to respond.

 

Someone came in to put on the cast just as Natasha and Mrs Hudson returned. Full house.

 

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” the employee said, and turned the morphine off. This made putting on the cast extremely painful for Moriarty. His lip was actually bleeding from biting down on it in pain.

 

After he made sure the cast was secured, the cast man started to help Moriarty out of bed and instruct him on the proper use of crutches. The pain was so bad that Moriarty began to faint. Sherlock ran over to help catch him and sat him up in bed. The colour of his face matched the colour of the sheets. White.

 

A new nurse entered the room, assessed the situation and yelled “don’t tell me you turned off the morphine and didn’t give him any pills. I should report you for that. You can’t go from a high dose of pain relief to nothing. I’ll be right back.”

 

The cast man sat down looking embarrassed and waited for the nurse to come back.

 

The nurse returned almost immediately with another little white cupcake holder of pills. It reminded Moriarty of a child's tea party. He realised he'd missed out on Natasha's tea parties. If she'd had any.

 

“Your chart indicated that these helped before. Let’s give them a try.” The nurse turned toward the employee who’d been about to teach Moriarty to use crutches. “Give him a little while to let the pills take effect before you try the crutches. In fact, better yet, go do something else and I’ll handle the crutches.”

 

The nurse looked around for a place to sit, and noticed the room was full to capacity. He fiddled with some dials and tried to make conversation.

 

“That’s your dad, right?” she asked Natasha. Natasha nodded.

 

“And you are...” the nurse looked at Mrs Hudson.

 

“Extremely annoyed.”

   

“I see. He looked at Sherlock and passed. “Hospitals can be quite trying on the nerves,” he said to no one in particular. “Once he’s back home and in his own bed, things should improve.”

 

“Sir, how is your pain level? Are you ready to try the crutches?”

 

Moriarty nodded. This time the nurse set the crutches under his arms before trying to make him stand up. He made a few adjustments, and asked Moriarty how he felt. He had a little bit of color in his face, and his forehead wasn’t dripping too much sweat.

 

“Have you been on narcotics for an extended period of time in the past?”

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t take street drugs, do you?”

 

“No. I already **told your colleague. NO.** ”

 

“Ah yes. I see the highlighted note. You must be one of those unfortunate individuals who are born with a low tolerance to pain. I’ll make sure the doctor gives you a script when you’re discharged.”

 

“And that will be when?”

 

“As soon as you walk around the room for me.”

 

By the time he’d reached his bed again, Moriarty had managed to keep the crutches more or less in place, and keep his injured leg off the ground.

 

“You’re a natural,” the nurse told him.

 

“My parents were acrobats in the circus.”

 

Silence.

 

The nurse reached his head out the door. “Doctor Wagner. This patient is ready to be discharged. Can you sign the papers? He’ll also need a large prescription for painkillers. He has a very low tolerance for pain.”

 

“I’ll be right there,” Dr. Wagner announced.

 

“Call me if you need me while you’re waiting,” the nurse said.

 

Then a miracle occurred.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been very kind and helpful.”

 

Mrs Hudson’s mouth dropped open. Natasha sniffed. Moriarty looked as if he were past caring.

 

A half hour later Dr. Wagner returned with Moriarty’s paperwork. “If you could just sign here and here,” he said. “No, not there.” The doctor sighed. “Here. Thank you. Here’s a prescription for some pain pills. You can leave now.” The doctor turned on her heels and did just that.

 

“Sherlock, can you help me get dressed?”

 

“Certainly. Ladies, can you give us some privacy?”

 

Mrs Hudson rushed Natasha out the door and slammed it shut, having forgotten that a slam or a push with a pinkie made no difference. The door took its own sweet time to shut.

 

Sherlock retrieved the plastic bag with Moriarty’s clothes.

 

“This will be a bit tricky. Why don’t you lie down on your back?”

 

Sherlock had an easy time with the pants. Unfortunately the trousers were a bit of an issue.

 

“Sorry, Jim, but I don’t see any way around cutting off this leg.”

 

“ **WHAT??!!!** ”

 

“Your trouser leg, idiot.” Sherlock looked around for an appropriate tool, and ended up taking a small but very sharp knife from a metal tray and slashed off most of the left trouser leg. He slipped the trousers on carefully and fastened them. The shirt was easy, and the jacket and coat could wait.

 

“I’ll take those,” Sherlock said as he picked up the discharge papers and prescription. “One hundred oxycodone. Excellent.”

 

“All of which are _mine._ ”

 

“Of course.” Sherlock looked slightly offended. “You’ve just had surgery and you’re in a cast with crutches. I was referring to the prescription being excellent for your pain. I may be an addict but I’m not a sadist.”

 

“Sorry,” Moriarty muttered. He was starting to feel very tired.

 

Fortunately, an orderly appeared with a wheelchair and helped Moriarty into it. Sherlock slipped on Moriarty’s shoes and socks, hung his coat and jacket on the wheelchair, and looked around the room.

 

“Got everything? Cause we’re not responsible for left objects.”

 

“We’re fine.”

 

The orderly almost wheeled Moriarty onto Mrs Hudson’s toes. He had no idea how lucky he'd been.

 

After what seemed to be half an hour, they were outside the front door.

 

“My car’s around back. I’ll go get it.” Sherlock and Moriarty silently groaned.

 

“I have a better idea. I’ll call Mycroft. We’re going to need some extra space.”

 

“And my car?”

 

“Do you have a problem with driving it home?”

 

Mrs Hudson disappeared and Sherlock took out his cell. The limo arrived before Mrs Hudson. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic in the car park,” she said to no one in particular. Sherlock and the orderly were helping Moriarty into the limousine. This was not a simple task, taking the crutches into account. Natasha slid into Mrs Hudson’s car, in the back seat. She looked dejected.

 

“All set?” the orderly asked.

 

The vehicles started up and the orderly left with the wheelchair.

 

“We’ll need to stop at a chemist on the way home,” Sherlock told the driver. They did, and the driver took the prescription to be filled. Five minutes later a disgruntled driver said “they need your driving license, Professor Moriarty.” He groaned and reached into his jacket pocket, where he found a bottle of pills. He reached into his other jacket pocket and took out his wallet.

 

“Here. I’m tired.”

 

“You’re lucky. I had to convince them that you were in no shape to pick up the pills yourself.”

 

Moriarty didn’t feel particularly lucky. The driver returned, handed a paper bag of pills to Moriarty, who shoved it in the same pocket as his other pills. The driver walked around to the front of the limo.

 

“Wallet?” said Sherlock. The driver sighed as if he were being asked to hand over a pile of bricks, and gave the wallet to Sherlock, who passed it to Moriarty.

 

“Why don’t you come to mine, Natasha?” Mrs Hudson asked. “I haven’t been there in ages and I’m sure it could use a good cleaning.” Natasha pouted. “Not serious cleaning, dear. Just straightening up. I think it’s a good idea to give your father some peace and quiet for a little while.” Natasha continued pouting but didn’t complain.

 

The limo driver and Sherlock helped Moriarty into his building and elevator. They passed the manager, who nodded as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

 

“Can you take it from here?” the driver asked as the elevator doors opened on the penthouse.

 

“I’m sure we’ll be fine. Please thank your brother for me.”

 

The driver stepped back into the elevator and Moriarty and Sherlock looked at the front door with trepidation.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll carry me?”

 

“You suppose correctly.”

 

As soon as they opened the door, Goose ran to meet Moriarty, then came to a sudden stop at the crutches.

 

“Hi Goose.” Moriarty sounded exhausted. “You must be hungry. Sherlock, do you think just this once you can do the honours?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer, which they both took as a yes.

 

What felt like hours later, Sherlock finally helped Moriarty into bed.

 

“Jacket.”

 

“You really don’t trust me, do you?”

 

“I trust you with the wallet. Pills?”

 

Sherlock took out the bag and the partially used bottle and set them on the bedside table.

 

“I can trust you, right? I don’t fancy counting all these pills and keeping track of them.”

 

“Jim! Asking for two pills from an old bottle is hardly the same thing.”

 

Moriarty thought about the other pills up Sherlock’s sleeve and decided it wasn’t worth worrying about.

 

“Shall I leave you to take a nap?”

 

“No. You can feed and water Goose and then join me for a nap. Very gently join me for a nap.”

 

For once, Sherlock followed instructions. Goose started to jump up on the bed and Moriarty screamed “No!” Then he immediately felt guilty and scratched the back of Goose’s neck till his fingers were tired. _We’ll have to make a temporary Goose Nest. What else was on my mind? Oh right. Family meeting. Natasha and Mrs Hudson. Later._

 

“You hungry?” A shout came from the kitchen.

 

“No, but some Glenfiddich sounds nice.”

 

“How many pills have you taken?”

 

“Oh. I forgot.” Moriarty left the new pills in the bag and took four of the old ones. “Two.”

 

“Three or four, then. Alright, you can have some Glenfiddich.”

 

“I love you, Sherlock.”

 

“I know.”

 


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and MorIarty go home.
> 
> Being home does not go swimmingly for Moriarty and Sherlock.

“Sherlock?”

 

Silence.

 

“Shuuuurrlock?

 

Silence.  


“Ground Control to Major Tom."

 

Sound of newspaper rustling.

 

“Ground Control to Major Tom."

 

More rustling.

 

“Your circuit’s dead, there’s something’s wrong

“Can you hear me Major Sherl?

“ **Can you hear me Major Lock?**

“ **CAN YOU HEAR ME MAJOR SHERLOCK?”**

“Yes. You can sing. Why did you tell me you couldn’t carry a tune?”

 

“I lied. I do have a terrible tendency to do that. Such a shame. One fault in an otherwise perfect personality.”

 

“I seem to remember your telling me that being changeable was your only fault.”

 

“I lied. And I’m changeable. Have you suddenly gone selectively deaf?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

 

“Then why the hell didn’t you answer me?”

 

“Because I knew what you were going to ask and I was still thinking about my reply.”

 

Moriarty was extremely miffed. They’d returned from the hospital yesterday. Sherlock had been unusually helpful. He’d assisted with Moriarty’s various morning ablutions. He’d helped Moriarty into his armchair and placed his leg on the ottoman, which was considerably less painful with a cast. He’d even made and delivered a mug of coffee. Which was why Moriarty was so miffed. What had happened to all that kindness? _You’re expecting consistency from Sherlock? Maybe you_ are _taking too many painkillers._

 

“What was I going to ask, oh psychic one?”

 

“Family meeting.”

 

Silence.

 

“You’re not too keen on it either. It was your idea.”

 

“But that was before I’d thought about it.”

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

“Seriously. My “family” in the hospital was _The_ _Rocky Horror Show_. I don’t _want_ to do the _Time Warp_ again. Especially not on crutches.”

 

“Can’t disagree. Why the sudden singing?”

 

“If I get stuck on words or thought, I sing. Clears the mind.”

 

“That sounds like something I would say, if you substitute violin for sing.”

 

“Goodie for you. Really. What am I going to do? Mrs. Hudson will be fine. Mrs. Hudson is always fine. I adore Natasha, but I despise being a father. I want to see her but not every day. I even care enough not to want to hurt her _feelings._ What the bloody hell am I going to do?”

 

“I believe you outlined the options quite clearly.” Sherlock threw the newspaper on the floor. The crinkling was bothering him.

 

“Option One: Do nothing. Unacceptable. You will go out of your mind and I like your mind.

 

“Option Two: Send Natasha to live with Mrs. Hudson. Unacceptable. Both of them will be miserable and Mrs. Hudson might refuse.

 

“Option Three: Send Natasha to boarding school and send Mrs. Hudson home. Possibly acceptable. Mrs. Hudson will be pleased but Natasha is an unknown. This is a good time to start boarding school, as it is approaching the Autumn term, which, being the first term, would be a more likely time to accept new students and Natasha would not be the only one.

 

“However, most of the best boarding schools are for boys only and fairly far away, so visits would be problematic. Also boarding schools have holidays during each of the three terms, ranging from 1-4 weeks, during which the schools are closed.”

 

“Option Four: An alternative with which I am not familiar, which is extremely unlikely. Basically, your options are dodgy at best.”

 

“When did you become an expert in education, darling?”

 

“I Googled it when you first mentioned a family meeting.”

 

“Well can you Google how to fix my life?”

 

“Don’t need to. Die. It’s easy. Just wait. Or I could do it for you right now.”

 

“Moron.”

 

“You asked.”

 

“Are you familiar with the concept of sarcasm?”

 

“Shall I search my mind palace? Oh wait. I believe the proper response is ‘fuck off.’ ”

 

Moriarty needed a coffee refill, badly, but he wasn’t about to ask Sherlock for help. He held his cast with one hand and kicked the ottoman away with his good foot. Then he reached for his crutches, put his weight on his bad foot, and screamed. He reversed tactics and was able to stand. He proceeded to traverse the living room to the kitchen, slowly and awkwardly. He made a detour to his bedroom to take more of the old pills. He figured he might as well use them up first, and the bag from the pharmacy was stapled in two places. Even Sherlock probably lacked the skill to remove two staples and replace them so exactly that Moriarty wouldn’t notice. He stuck a handful of the old pills in his pocket in case he needed more later. He had no desire to repeat his excursion from the living room to the bedroom.

 

He managed to get to the kitchen without any problems. Except one. The coffee carafe was half full, the heated bottom to keep the coffee warm was on. He was even able to reach another mug and fill it with coffee. He took a sip. Not bad, considering it had been sitting there for hours. He took a larger gulp. And saw absolutely no way he could possibly carry the cup into the living room. So he stood at the kitchen counter, gulping slightly lukewarm coffee till it was gone. Not very satisfying. He desperately wanted some Glenfiddish to balance his internal level of drugs. The thought of the return trip and then managing to retrieve the Glenfiddish was very discouraging. Still, he did not want to spend the rest of his life at the kitchen counter.

 

He moved very slowly, pleased that there was no need to think of Crutches of Shame, until he remembered why he needed them in the first place. No matter. He managed to reach his chair and even rest his leg on the ottoman. But where was the Glenfiddich? He sighed hopelessly. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t get it in any case.

 

“Would you like some of your absurdly expensive scotch?” It seemed to be Sherlock who was changeable. “It was rather painful to watch you get a cup of coffee.”

 

_Then why the hell didn’t you help me?_

 

“So sorry. Some Glenfiddish would be ever so delightful. And I’m _sooooooo_ pleased you enjoyed my little performance. Of course I could have moved much more smoothly and quickly, but I was hoping you’d enjoy the show.”

 

Sherlock opened the liquor cabinet and took a bottle from the second shelf from the top. He put the bottle on the end table and sat back down in his armchair.

 

“I see you’ve rearranged my liquor cabinet.”

 

“Yes. You should be able to reach it when you’re off the crutches. I have no particular desire to be your designated liquor fetcher. And I assume neither of us want to repeat this particular scenario.”

 

Moriarty left the liquor bottle untouched. He felt slightly afraid.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes? Did I deliver the wrong liquor bottle?”

 

“Can you do me a favor?”

 

“Another? So soon?”

 

“Yes. Can you kiss me?”

 

“What?!”

 

“Can you kiss me? Is that such a strange request?”

 

“Actually? Yes.”

 

“Please? I mean it. I really want you to kiss me.”

 

Sherlock gave Jim a peck on the lips. Jim held him and deepened the kiss. It was a very long kiss, until they both had to come up for air.

 

Sherlock perched on the arm of Mortiarty’s chair and stared at his friend. His archenemy. His lover. All three? “What was that about?”

 

Moriarty stuck his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and began to massage his scalp.

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

“Does it have to be about anything?”

 

“Oh. That’s really, that really feels, good.”

 

“Do you want to know what it’s about?”

 

Sherlock sighed in pleasure.

 

“I love you. I don’t want you to leave me. I’m afraid of this family meeting. I’m afraid you’ll get fed up and leave.”

 

“Wrong answer. I can’t predict what I’ll do until I do it. Please don’t stop touching my scalp.”

 

“I can’t help thinking that I’ve fallen in love with you, and you find it an interesting experiment.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock pulled away. “What makes you think that?”

 

“Lately I’ve had the feeling you’re miles away, and about to take off.”

 

“Major Tom?”

 

“Maybe. Just tell me how you feel. I don’t care what you say. Just tell me.”

 

“Are you sure you want to hear the answer?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Exactly. I don’t know either.”

 

“Did you only fancy me as a defense against boredom? Are you bored now that we’re actually together?”

 

“Are you sure you want to hear the answer?”

 

“No. Let’s watch telly.”

 

Moriarty felt around for the proper remote. As soon as he turned on the television, he heard “Breaking news. Gunshots can be heard from the first floor of Harrods. Police are arriving on the scene just now, minutes later. “Can you tell us what’s happening?”

 

“You’re getting in my way and causing more shooting. Move.”

 

They recognised Lestrade.

 

“Wasn’t me.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“I miss our games. I miss our sex. I miss our everything, and I’m certain you’re going to move out.”

 

Moriarty opened the scotch, looked for a glass, and, not finding one, he took a huge swig from the bottle. Followed by another. Followed by some pills from his pocket, which he washed down with another swig of Glenfidditch.

 

“What is the matter with you?”

 

“Do you reeeeeally want to know?” Moriarty couldn’t quite pull it off. Even to himself, he sounded stupid.

 

“I wouldn’t have asked had I not wanted to know.”

 

“I’m terrified. I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid of losing myself. I don’t really give a damn about Mrs. Hudson, but I’m afraid of what’s going to happen with Natasha. I don’t even know what I _want_ to happen with Natasha. But I know I want you and I know you hate conflict and are probably happiest living by yourself and I used to be the same way but I’ve changed. I don’t know who I am anymore. But I know I want you and I know you’re going to leave.”

 

“Really? That’s more than I know.”

 

“Please don’t. Pleeease? From the bottom of what passes for my heart, please don’t leave.”

 

“Stop it. This abandoned puppy dog act doesn’t suit you. I’m going out for a walk.”

 

Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf, rather theatrically, and walked out the front door.

 

Even Goose was hiding. Apparently she was afraid of crutches. She came out only to be fed and watered, and then disappeared. No one had cleaned her litter box for days, and it stank. Moriarty missed her warm little body. He missed Sherlock much more. He missed Natasha but was also very glad she wasn’t around. Not knowing what else to do, he turned off the telly, held his head in his hands and sat in the dark.

 

Moriarty hurt. Physically and emotionally, if he indeed had emotions, which he suspected he might. He went to bed early. His trip to the bedroom was slightly easier this time. Except he couldn’t stand the stench of Goose’s litter box. He imagined it didn’t appeal to her either. He managed to get down on his good knee, drag his cast behind him, push Goose’s litter box into the kitchen, empty and refill it. Her food was stored on the floor level cabinets. He found two old Goose bowls Natasha must have left on the floor. He filled the food bowl. Goose gobbled it down so he refilled it. The water bowl confounded him until he saw there was some rather dirty water left. _The pond is dirty. This will have to do._ He hadn’t brought his crutches so he crawled/dragged himself back to his bedroom and hefted himself into bed with his arms. Goose's food and litter could stay where they were. The crutches were leaning against his side of the bed. Goose walked around to the other side and jumped next to Moriarty. She was so light she didn’t hurt him at all.

 

Moriarty reached out his arm for Goose. She immediately snuggled under his armpit. He held her tight, breathed in her bird scent, mixed with the scent of Sherlock. He remembered their first night together. _Life would be so_ boring _without Sherlock. And so lonely._ He stayed up for a long time listening for Sherlock’s key in the front door. When he woke in the morning, he was alone. He couldn’t understand how his life had fallen apart so completely and so quickly. The family meeting hadn’t even happened yet, and still he was alone. He pulled Sherlock’s pillow over his face, snuggled closer with Goose, and fell back asleep. His dreams were all nightmares, but being awake was worse.


	4. Julian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Goose sit outside on the stoop for some fresh air.
> 
> Goose is almost killed in traffic.
> 
> A savior comes to her aid.

Moriarty was getting very bored with only Goose as a companion. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock all day and refused to admit that he missed him. Sherlock wasn’t a particularly good conversationalist at the best of times, and when he was entirely absent was not the best of times. Moriarty was not about to seem desperate and call him. Yet. He imagined at this rate he’d be making prank phone calls soon, just to have someone to talk to. He could use his kill phone to call his mobile and talk to himself, but that was not only dangerous but stupid. That reminded him that he hadn’t been around to answer his kill phone, but even master criminals are allowed to get sick, right? Going to the bathroom was a major chore. He couldn’t quite see himself engineering a complicated disappearance when his brain had half disappeared on painkillers and his supposed heart had half disappeared when he’d woken to an empty bed.

 

Still, he didn’t want his business to suffer. Naturally, he’d disabled the answerphone on his kill phone. Leaving names and phone numbers from people who wanted him to eliminate other people had seemed a poor idea. _Right. Kill phone. I suppose I could set up a vacation message for missed calls._

 

“Hi. I’m on holiday and am temporarily unavailable to assist with murder or political killings. Please leave your name and the name of the person or persons you want eliminated, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. _And Please_ , leave your telephone number, including country code, even if you think I have it. Have a deadly day.”

 

“Not so much.” Moriarty realised he’d been speaking aloud to himself. “Great. It’s been one day and I’m turning into a senile imbecile. Glad Sherlock wasn’t around to hear that. Stop it, Jim. Shut up! No speaking aloud except to Goose. Or answering the phone. Or shouting at the telly. No, that would remind me of Sherlock. Jim! Stop talking out loud **now!** ”

 

Yelling at himself did the trick. He didn’t want to completely lose it. He hoped no one had been walking by his door during his speech. Then he remembered he owned the entire floor. And if for some reason the manager had been there, he’d simply have nodded to himself and walked on.

 

Beautiful as his view was, he was getting tired of looking at it from his armchair. Fascinating as the classic was, he was getting bored of re-reading _Crime and Punishment_. He was even getting tired of listening to Bach.

 

 _Then DO something. Poor Goose hasn’t been walked for days. I’ll take her for a walk to the pond. Right. Nice one, Jim. I’ll take her downstairs and we’ll sit on the front steps and people-watch._ Moriarty had always considered people-watching an incomprehensible waste of time. But that was when he had other options of how to spend his time. Cast-watching was even worse. So he began the time-consuming process of getting ready to go outside.

 

First was the odious chore of getting out of his armchair and crutching to his bedroom. He stopped by the kitchen on the way to put up some coffee. That was a piece of cake. Everything he needed was at waist level or higher. He tackled getting dressed while the coffee was brewing.

 

He’d slept in his pants and half of his Westwood trousers last night, since Sherlock hadn’t been around to help him with the laborious task of undressing and putting on pajamas. He grabbed a random shirt from his closet, which wasn’t that difficult since it required only one arm. He saw that he’d taken his favorite shirt, lavender. Putting on a shirt while sitting on his bed was easy. He even decided to live dangerously and lean over on his good leg to grab a tie. Unfortunately, being Moriarty, he had to look at all of them and compare them to the shirt draped over his arm to choose the best combination. Plum with lavender diamonds. Yes. At least putting on a tie didn’t require standing or walking. Even if it had required standing on his head, he would have worn a tie. For sitting on his front steps. He may be physically incapacitated, but that didn't mean he had to be sartorially incapacitated, too.

 

He asked Goose what socks he should wear, since she was so interested in the parts of his body she could reach. Unfortunately, she had terrible taste in clothes. Moriarty didn’t think that olive green went very well with lavender and plum. So he chose a pair of socks and put them on, all of which he could do from his bed. Actually, a pair of socks was a misnomer. He didn’t need a sock on his cast leg; it came with its own foot. He grabbed a Westwood jacket from his closet; easy, since all the jackets more or less matched the trousers and he wasn’t about to cut up all his trousers just for appearance. Yes, he was vain, but he wasn’t stupid. Goose didn’t seem to mind.

 

 _What do I need for this big adventure to my front steps? More pills. These will wear off in an hour or so. I wish they’d given me the kind that last all day. Oh well._ He slipped a handful, a large handful, into his pocket. Then he tried to remember exactly when he’d taken his last “dose.” The dose on the bottle was one pill every six hours, which was about as relevant to him as counting calories. Moriarty’s usual “dose” was anywhere between two to four pills; however many he happened to pour into his hand. Occasionally it exceeded four, but he didn’t like to think about that. He figured that he wanted to remain alert (i.e., not nod out on the front steps to his building, drooling) but relatively pain-free, so he took three pills.

 

Putting on one shoe wasn’t particularly difficult. He was clothed, jacketed, supplied with medication, and thirsty. Damn. Back to the kitchen for a glass of water. He debated whether this would create future inconvenient bodily needs, decided not to worry about it, and considered if he was ready to leave. Ah! Keys. They would come in handy. They were in a different jacket pocket, but it was nearby tossed on the couch, so getting them wasn’t a huge problem. His wallet was in the same jacket pocket, so he took it, although he couldn’t imagine what he’d need it for.

 

Launch time. This was exciting. And horribly depressing. He called Goose, which was unnecessary because she’d learned to stay away from the crutches (large Goose-attacking sticks, which she couldn’t imagine why her mother would want) but still followed Moriarty everywhere, just at a further distance. He had his wallet, pills, key, Goose; he was ready to tackle the world. He managed to remember the threshold, operate the elevator, and step over the lobby threshold. Unfortunately the manager wasn’t there. Moriarty had been looking forward to his nod. Pathetic, but true. When he opened the outside door, which conveniently corresponded to someone walking inside the door (of course he wouldn’t consider waiting for that to happen, or at least not waiting very long), the outside air smelled delicious. Auto exhaust fumes notwithstanding. He sat all the way over to the edge of the stairs, to allow people to use the door and to allow himself to lean against the wall. Goose, as always, stayed close by. He forgot to people-watch; it was so thrilling to be outside.

 

He could have sat on the steps with Goose for hours, but he didn’t. After ten minutes or so, Goose got bored and began to wander around. Not very far from Moriarty, but far enough to make him nervous. Several birds were enjoying a puddle across the street, and for the first time in her life, Goose waddled into traffic to join them.

 

“No! Goose! Come back!” The sound of her mother’s voice was either muffled by traffic, or didn’t compare to the excitement of the puddle. Moriarty lived on a busy street, and he was terrified. He tried to run after her, forgetting about his crutches, and immediately fell down on his bottom. He screamed “Ow! Goose!!!,” which was the worst thing he could have done, because Goose stopped in the middle of the street to look at him. “Noooo!” Unnaturally heedless of his appearance, Moriarty tried to hop to the street to fetch her. He made it to the curb and fell over onto his bottom again. A truck was approaching Goose, which was the worst possible scenario, because the driver was sitting too high to notice a goose in the street. Suddenly a figure ran across the street, scooped up Goose, and ran toward Moriarty. Goose immediately jumped in his lap, unaware that Moriarty was plopped on his butt in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

“Thank you, bless you, thank you sooooo much. I thought we’d be safe out here on the stoop. She’s never done anything like that before. You’re a life-saver. Literally. And you risked your own life to save a goose. How commendable. Unfortunately I’m all out of Order of Merits.”

 

The young man laughed. “I’m tall enough for vehicles to see me and get out of my way. I’m just lucky to have caught it before anything happened.”

 

“Not luck. Extreme and rather inane kindness.”

 

“Honestly, anyone would have done the same.”

 

“Really? I didn’t see a gaggle of pedestrians rush to save her. I don’t know how to repay you.”

 

“No worries. You look like you could use a little help yourself.” The young man bent down and put his arms underneath Moriarty’s, like a pair of human crutches. Goose ran to the building’s front steps. Moriarty was blushing, partly due to the ridiculous situation he was in, and partly due to the young man who’d saved Goose. He was beautiful, and very much Moriarty’s type.

 

The man looked to be in his early twenties. He had long but stylish dark hair, and almost black eyes, which naturally looked as if he’d outlined them in kohl. His smile was charming and slightly seductive, probably because of his drop-dead gorgeous lips. He looked like a slightly troubled Raskolnikov.

 

“Need any more help?”

 

“No, no, you’ve been too sweet already.” As Moriarty spoke, someone opened the front door from inside, smacking it into his face.

 

“Oops. We’re sorry,” said one of the group of young women exiting the building. “We didn't see you. Are you ok?”

 

Moriarty looked up at the young man, who nodded his head.

 

“I think we’ve got it from here.”

 

Moriarty smiled and reached for his crutches, sorry to let go of the man’s inadvertent hug.

 

“Would you like a glass or water? Or some tea?”

 

“Sure. I’d love some water. I can help with your little friend here, too.” Goose usually shied away from strangers, but she was still frightened from her brush with death. When the young man picked her up, she snuggled into him as if he were Moriarty.

 

“Is she always this friendly?”

 

“Not particularly. Only with people she likes. Or after a near-death experience. Did you see the light, Goose? You’re supposed to go toward the light. Though frankly, I’m glad you didn’t, thanks to this absolutely gorgeous young savior.”

 

The young man stood there like a doorstop and waited for Moriarty to wrangle his crutches into place. As soon as the outside door closed, Goose jumped down and began to waddle to the elevator.

 

“She’ll be ok. She knows she’s home. I really should train her to fly up and push the elevator button with her beak, but she’s only just learned how to fly. She’s a bit slow with goose things. She imprinted on me as a hatchling, and thinks she’s a short feathered human, and I’m a particularly tall, naked, stupid-looking mother. I’m Jim, by the way.”

 

“Julian. I’d offer to shake your hand, but I think I’d end up shaking you down to the floor again.”

 

The manager appeared from his office, and nodded at Jim, the crutches, Julian, and the goose.

 

When he was gone, Moriarty said “That man nods every time he sees me. No matter what. I could be walking on my hands, balancing Goose on my feet, and he’d just nod.”

 

“Well, it _is_ London.”

 

“Yes. And he _is_ a very non-observant man.”

 

“Which button should I push?”

 

“All of them, if you’re a silly little boy who likes pranks. Top, if you’d like to help me home. I’m always afraid the elevator door will close on Goose. I don’t think she’s tall enough to set off the automatic hold. That would make an unusual photo, an empty elevator with a goose standing in the middle of the opened doors.”

 

“It’s an unusual day. It’s not every day that I run into a man pulling himself along on his butt trying to save his pet goose.”

 

“It’s not every day I run into a Goose savior.”

 

The elevator arrived, and Julian held it open, which was very much appreciated.

 

“Thanks. You know I used to think those elevator doors were so _painfully_ slow. All a matter of perspective, I suppose.”

 

When the elevator doors closed, Goose ran over to Jim to be scritched behind her neck. Moriarty almost fell over bending down, but saved himself at the last minute. “I think we need to wait a bit for neck scritches, Goose. So sorry.”

 

The elevator arrived at the top floor, and Goose ran to the front door. “That eager to go home, Goose? Of course this is the first time you’ve ever been stuck in the middle of the street waiting to be run over. You were lucky to be saved by Prince Charming here.”

 

Julian blushed.

 

Moriarty opened his front door as if he’d been doing so on crutches all his life.

 

“Welcome.”

 

“What a beautiful view.”

 

“Yeah, that kind of sold me on the place. Let me get you some water.”

 

“Please, allow me. Not that I minded, but I’d just as soon not pick you up off the floor again. How long have you had those?”

 

“About a day.”

 

“Ah. They get easier after a while.”

 

“I can’t wait until they’re really easy and I don’t have to use them anymore.” Moriarty sat in his armchair with a sigh of relief.

 

Julian chuckled. He opened some kitchen cabinets, found the glasses, and turned on the tap.

 

“There’s spring water in the fridge.”

 

Julian opened the fridge door and said “wow. There’s everything in the fridge. Someone go shopping for you today?”

 

“No. Just lucky. I tend to be that way. Lucky.”

 

“Other than needing crutches. And almost losing your goose.”

 

“There _is_ that. Some water would be absolutely lovely.”

 

“See, this is how you do it. Grab the top of each glass with your thumb and forefinger and hold it against the crutch.” He brought over two full glasses, one on either side pressed against his leg to emulate crutches, and delivered a glass of water to the end table by Moriarty’s chair.

 

“So you’re experienced?” Moriarty made the question sound seductive.

 

Julian blushed. “I broke my leg skiing last year. I know all the secrets about crutches.”

 

“Do you know how to make them go away?”

 

Julian blushed again. “I think it’s just a matter of time.”

 

“Time, yes. Not particularly my friend.” Moriarty picked up the water glass, reached in his jacket pocket, and swallowed a few more pills.

 

“Oh, you look like time is still your friend.”

 

“How terribly kind of you. I’m afraid we’ve entered the war zone, time and me.”

 

“Oh stop it,” said Julian. “Time is still on your side.”

 

“Yes it is. Oh tii-ii-ii-ime, is on my side, yes it is.”

 

Julian laughed.

 

“I didn’t think you’d recognize that, being a Millennial.”

 

Julian laughed again. “Not quite. Generation X, I think. Or is it generation Z? I can never keep track of those things.”

 

“You’re not meant to. There’s a new one every twenty years. So you like ancient Rolling Stones?”

 

“I like pretty much all music. I play bass.”

 

“Electric or acoustic?”

 

“Both. I love all kinds of music.”

 

“That’s good, because my knowledge of popular music pretty much stops at the ‘80s. Though I’m awfully fond of Bach.”

 

“Really? He’s my favorite composer.”

 

“Kind of hard to beat. Unless you’re Procol Harem.”

 

Julian laughed yet again.

 

They both broke into a version of the intro from _A Whiter Shade of Pale._

 

“Great song. I dare you to think of a better one from this millenium.”

 

“ _Bad Romance_?”

 

“Good one. You in school?”

 

Julian laughed again. “Not recently.”

 

“What, did you get your degree when you were twelve?”

 

“Hardly. I don’t think we’re that far apart in age.”

 

“Really. How adorable. What year were you born?”

 

“1992. You?”

 

“You’ll never know, honey. I need some more pain meds. These aren’t working.” Moriarty took out a few more from his pocket and swallowed them dry.

 

“The others haven’t had a chance to take effect yet.”

 

“I’ve got a very fast metabolism.”

 

“I can see.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“Well, I’ve only known you for what, half an hour, and I want to kiss you already.”

 

“That would be your metabolism, darling. But what’s the point of quibbling over words? I’d attack you right now, but I’m a bit prone to being prone at the moment. Come.” Moriarty did one of his best wide-eyed long-lashed looks.

 

Julian was by his side in seconds. He perched on the arm of the chair ( _like Sherlock,_ Moriarty thought) and leaned in for a kiss. Moriarty did not disappoint. Julian slid his hand down Moriarty’s chest, and lower. They both moaned.

 

“So flat,” Julian said.

 

“For my age, you mean?”

 

“Shut up. You’re interfering with my concentration.”

 

“Pretend I’m a bass.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’d wager nothing interferes with your concentration when you’re playing bass.”

 

Julian moved his hand lower and rested it in Moriarty’s lap.

 

“And you’re stopping why?” Moriarty was having a hard time sitting still.

 

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

 

“You have got to be kidding, honey. Have I become that opaque?”

 

Once Julian got the go ahead, there was no stopping him. He reached under Moriarty’s ripped trouser leg, then under his pants. Then Moriarty lost track of time for a little while. He twisted around in his chair, sighed, and moaned. Finally he relaxed back into the chair.

 

Julian’s face was flushed. A lock of long dark hair fell over his forehead in a particularly fetching way. Moriarty caught his breath and said “I’m not sure my cast will let me reciprocate.”

 

“I think we’ll manage. I have an idea.” Julian proceeded to take off his pants and trousers and lie down on the floor on his back, several metres away, head pointed toward Moriarty’s feet. He put on a condom. Moriarty thought the use of a condom for manual or oral sex rather odd. His cast made any other sort of sex seem extremely awkward if not downright painful. But odd was good. Odd was unordinary.

 

“Oh, I forgot. Need any help?” Julian asked. Upside-down.

 

Moriarty did, but he wasn’t about to say so. He slowly lowered himself out of his armchair, then wriggled on his stomach like a snake until his tongue could reach Julian. Not ideal, but not bad, under the circumstances. Judging from Julian’s sounds when he came, he thought the situation had worked out surprisingly well. Moriarty rested his ckeek next to Julian’s flaccid and now uncovered cock, and just relaxed. First time he’d relaxed since he’d fallen off the Stepladder of Shame. They lay on the carpet, one very long man with two heads in the middle and legs on either end, doing nothing but being happy.

 


	5. Sherlock Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to find Moriarty and Julian in a compromising position.
> 
> Julian leaves in record time.
> 
> Sherlock and Moriarty determine how they feel about each other.

33 

Sherlock let himself in.

 

“What a particularly boring day.”

 

“Jim?”

 

“Jim?”

 

He hung his coat and scarf on the coat rack and walked into the living room, where he saw Moriarty and a half-dressed young man, sleeping in a peculiar position on the floor.

 

“Oh.”

 

“ ** _Jim_**?” he asked, bending over so that he shouted into Jim’s ear.

 

“Ummm?”

 

“I’m home.”

 

“Oh. Oh!”

 

Moriarty sat up, waking Julian in the process.

 

“Fancy meeting you here.”

 

“Fancy meeting your very young friend here.”

 

Julian got up, turned his back on Sherlock, and put on his pants and trousers with alarming alacrity. “I think perhaps I should be going.”

 

“Perhaps that would be a good idea. Thank you ever so much for saving Goose’s life, honey, and for an absolutely delightful afternoon.”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Julian practically ran to the front door. “Thanks for the water.” He immediately felt like an idiot as he let himself out.

 

“He saved Goose’s life, so I offered him a glass of water.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

“Would you like a glass of water?”

 

“No.”

 

Silence ensued as each waited for the other to speak. As usual, Moriarty gave in first. Not talking was not his style.

 

“I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I was bored. Plus Goose needed some fresh air.” Moriarty paused for Sherlock to respond. He didn’t.

 

“It was a one-time thing. I don’t even know his last name or phone number.”

 

No response.

 

“Sherlock, I was bored. I needed entertainment.”

 

“Apparently. It’s been less than 24 hours. You bore quickly.”

 

“I didn’t know you’d be back in less than 24 hours time. I didn’t know if you’d be back at all. And by entertainment, I meant taking Goose outside for a bit. The rest just happened.”

 

“I’ve noticed how every time you take a walk with your goose the rest does NOT just happen.”

 

“Sit down. You’re making me nervous.” Moriarty did a credible impression of Julianne Moore in _Benny and Joon_. She was probably doing an impression of someone else, but if so, Moriarty had no idea who. Some film noir actor.

 

Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed if Moriarty had sounded like Betty Boop.

 

He sat in his usual chair, looking non-plussed. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

 

“Neither was I. We’ve never discussed exclusivity.”

 

“I didn’t think there was a need. Had I known you’d have sex with every pretty boy you ‘just happened” to run into, I’d have brought up the subject. Can I have some of your glass of water?”

 

“Of course. But Julian’s is closer.”

 

“Germs. Which in fact you might now possess, but I assume from your location relative to the glass of water you drank this before your little escapade.”

 

“We used a condom. It was disgusting, but no germs.”

 

This seemed to make Sherlock feel worse. He fiddled with his hair, something Moriarty had never seen him do.

 

“You’re not jealous, darling, are you? There’s really no need. This is the first time since we’ve been together that I’ve had sex with anyone else but you. If it helps, I doubt this sort of thing will happen again. I can ensure it won’t happen again, if that’s what you want. It’s you and me that matters. Only you and me.”

 

“I will require some time to think about this.” He sat down in his armchair.

 

“Can you think here? I’d really rather you don’t leave again.”

 

“I can think anywhere. The question is, do I want to think here?”

 

“And?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Thank God. I really didn’t expect you to react so strongly. Monogamy never struck me as particularly relevant to you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re so full of surprises. So non-ordinary. So brilliant. I’d die of boredom without you. I don’t care if that diminishes my status as a psychopath. I don’t care if it makes me a bloody housewife. I could wear that little black lace apron you were so enamoured of. I want _you_.”

 

“Nice soliloquy, but I can’t think while you’re talking to me.”

 

Moriarty shut his eyes and listened to Bach in his head.

 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, quite a while later.

 

“Okay what?”

 

“Okay we can continue to be together. Not okay that you see other people. My life’s too complicated already. I see no need to make it more so.”

 

“You aren’t just a teensy bit jealous?”

 

“Jim. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

 

“No!”

 

“Then stop being such a jerk.”

 

“I’m not being a jerk. If I were to come home and find you in a similar position, I’d probably kill you both.”

 

“No doubt. But you won’t.”

 

“Neither will you, again. Ever. I swear. I swear on the Bible.”

 

“You don’t believe in the Bible.”

 

“True. I haven’t even read all of it. Some parts are incredibly tedious. Have you ever tried to get through the begatitudes? But isn’t that the sort of thing people say in situations like this?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

 

“You make it sound so dire. It’s not like you found little chunks of me splattered all over the flat.”

 

“Jim. Even for you, that’s in terrible taste.”

 

“Just saying.”

 

“Go away and let me think.”

 

“I thought you’d made up your mind.”

 

“About us, I have. It might interest you to know that I have other concerns on my mind.”

 

“But really, darling, we’re all that matters.”

 

“Then why did you – never mind. Want to watch a movie on the telly?”

 

_Did Sherlock just say that? Is this a dream, and Julian is still here?_

 

“Love to. Just give me ten or fifteen minutes to move to the couch.”

 

“I wish I didn’t love you. Love is so inconvenient. And impractical.”

 

“Yes. It is. So are these crutches. Want to help me to the couch?”

 

“You didn’t need my help earlier this afternoon.”

 

“Sherlock. Cut it out. I said I’m sorry. That’s it. I’m not going to repeat it like a mantra for the rest of my life.”

 

“Point taken.”

 

Sherlock helped Moriarty settle in, brought over the Glenfidditch, and two fresh glasses.

 

“I thought you despised alcohol.”

 

“I do. But certain situations demand an exception.”

 

They each poured a glass of scotch, and watched a halfway decent movie on the telly. Moriarty held Sherlock’s hand and kissed him every few minutes. Sometimes Sherlock responded in kind.

 

___ ~ ___

 

“Don’t die, Sherlock.”

 

“I don’t plan to.”

 

“I’d miss you so terribly much, I’d kill myself, too.”

 

“Lucky for you I’m quite healthy. Other than being a part-time addict.”

 

“Speaking of which, as a gesture of remorse, you can have as many of my pills as you like. Although bear in mind this is a one-time offer.”

 

“I accept. This Glenfiddish is nauseating.”

 

“How many would you like?”

 

“Ten or so would do nicely.”

 

“I meant a one-time offer for one dose.”

 

“So did I.”

 

Moriarty emptied his pocket and found nine pills.

 

“Will this do? I’d get you another but it’s _so_ much trouble.”

 

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

 

Sherlock swallowed all nine at one go, washing them down with Moriarty’s germ-free water.

 

“Wow. Maybe we should have a competition.”

 

“You’d lose. I have a very high tolerance.”

 

“As do I. But unfortunately, I have no more pills with me.”

 

“Are they still in my bedroom?”

 

“Yes. But please don’t steal the lot, Sherlock. I really do need them.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom with an alacrity Moriarty envied. He returned with ten pills, which he gave to Moriarty.

 

“The tenth is a token of my love.”

 

“Have I told you recently how much I love you?”

 

“Yes. Shut up and take the pills.” Moriarty did.

 

“Shall we wager on who will pass out first?”

 

“Irrelevant. Would you like to play kill?”

 

“Always. Though I can think of something I’d rather play.”

 

“Not yet. You’re still being punished.”

 

Moriarty sighed and began to play kill. As the pills kicked in, they invented new rules. Such as tossing the cards across the room.

 

“How are we to keep track?”

 

“Does it matter?” Moriarty bit Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock pushed him away. “Did I tell you that your punishment was over?”

 

“No. How long will it last?”

 

“As long as I want it to.”

 

“Oh, really? I wasn’t _that_ naughty.”

 

“It’s a matter of perspective.”

 

Sherlock pushed Moriarty down on the couch, taking care not to hurt his leg. Moriarty had never noticed before, but the couch was not particularly comfortable on his naked cheek. Still, he felt now was not the best time to discuss upholstery.

 

Sherlock unfastened the buttons to Moriarty’s shirt. He moved down slowly, alternating between kissing and licking. He paid special attention to Moriarty’s nipples. Moriarty began to squirm.

 

“Did I say it was okay for you to move?”

 

“Uh, no.”

 

“Then don’t.”

 

Sherlock continued to move down Moriarty’s body, skipping his genitals and massaging his upper thighs.

 

“Please,” Moriarty moaned. “I’ve been punished enough. _Please._ ”

 

“Please what?”

 

“Please touch me.”

 

“I _am_ touching you.”

 

“You know what I mean. Please touch me there.”

 

“Where?”

 

Moriarty sighed uncontrollably. “My genitals.”

 

“And why should I do that?”

 

“Because I love you?”

 

Sherlock very gently ran his hand over Moriarty’s genitals, touching them very lightly though his trousers and pants. Moriarty ignored the pain and pulled down his half trousers and pants. Sherlock covered him with the lightest of butterfly kisses.

 

“You’re killing me.”

 

“Oh, not quite yet.” Sherlock massaged Moriarty’s upper thighs.

 

“I’m sorry, honey, for everything I’ve ever said or done that hurt you. In this lifetime or another. Or the next. **Please.** ”

 

“I’m thirsty. I think I need a glass of water. A cold glass of water.” Sherlock got up and walked toward the kitchen. Moriarty began touching himself. Sherlock stopped and returned.

 

“None of that,” he said, slapping Moriarty’s hand and shoving it over his head. He did the same to the other hand, for good measure.

 

Moriarty groaned. “Why are you doing this?”

 

“Your punishment isn’t over. I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

 

Sherlock bit Moriarty’s nipple hard, till it almost bled. He then did the same to the other nipple.

 

“I promise. I’ll never so much as look at another man. Please, Sherlock. Pleeease.”

 

Sherlock sat back and looked at Moriarty. His face was red, and sweating profusely.

 

“I’m not sure that the experiment is over.”

 

“Yes. It is. Right now.” Moriarty grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him down so that his mouth was touching him. Sherlock licked him gently, for a few seconds. Moriarty grabbed his head and shoved it down. Sherlock took him in his mouth, and within seconds, Moriarty moaned and came. When he’d gotten at least partial control of his voice, he barked “I love you, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock very gently moved Moriarty’s cast so that it was lying on the top of the couch. He pulled up Moriarty’s other leg and rested it on his shoulder. He licked one, then two, then three fingers and slid them into Moriarty. Both of them were groaning. Sherlock removed his fingers and entered Moriarty. They both gasped. Sherlock moved quickly, shoving harder with each push. He leaned his head back, groaned, and came hard, brushing Moriarty’s prostrate as he did. Then he leaned forward, took Moriarty in his mouth, and made him come a second time. He dropped down onto Moriarty’s chest, and each of their hearts pounded onto the other’s.

 

They stayed like that for quite a while, until Sherlock gently pulled away.

 

“Tell me your little afternoon delight was that good.” Sherlock stared Moriarty in the eyes.

 

“No, never, not even close,” Moriarty panted.

 

“Good. I wanted to show you I’m good at things other than thinking. Did you get the message?”

 

Moriarty was crying. “Yes,” he sobbed. “Yes, yes, always yes.”

 

“Good. Shall I help you into the bedroom for a nap?”

 

“What’s wrong with right here?”

 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I love you too, Jim.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Sherlock accept, in their own peculiar ways, the reality of their love,
> 
> Natasha finds a perfect place to live.
> 
> Moriarty's been taking increasingly more pain pills, and knows it's clouding his judgement. He doesn't care.
> 
> Sherlock, master consulting detective, cares. He understands all too well the dangers of addiction, and is not at all happy with Moriarty's continued use of painkillers, 24/7.
> 
>  
> 
> Note for the reader. I wrote this chapter when I was ill with a fever and cough. I'm still ill, so I'm not certain I did such a great editing job, either. I'm sorry. If you see any mistakes, please don't hesitate to leave a comment.

 

 

Life had been progressing in a rather boring style, but Moriarty was happy. Sherlock’s finding him with Julian had produced a positive, though subtle, change. Though since it was Sherlock, it was not a change obvious to anyone but Moriarty. Sherlock didn’t shout from the window “I love Jim!” It would have been impossible, given that Moriarty’s huge picture window didn’t open. The only person who might hear was Moriarty, who already knew.

 

Sherlock found himself puzzled. He felt an emotion he pretended not to recognize, but it just wouldn’t shut up. Of course Sherlock had known for a long time that the _feeling_ of love existed, and he tortured himself trying to figure it out. Now, a lack of tension, even peace, had developed between them. Once they acknowledged that they could and did in fact love each other, the issue faded into the background and became as automatic as breathing.

 

Of course there were limits. Moriarty didn’t want Sherlock involved in his business, for fear of repercussions. Sherlock didn’t want Moriarty involved in his work, both for vanity and safety. Very little had changed, yet everything had changed. The air they breathed was slightly different now. They knew in what passed for their hearts, and deep in a part of them neither quite understood, that their love mattered. Both men stopped trying to fully understand their relationship, and with that came peace. They were the Queen and the Lion; two sides of the same coin.

 

Trust tagged along with love. Neither of them totally understood the change, and neither of them was ready to admit it, but they felt it in every cell of their bodies, in every cloud and raindrop and the stink of a car desperately in need of emissions maintenance. Life was easy. As easy as it could get for Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty.

 

Moriarty was thrilled to finally have his cast removed. He’d healed well, and was ready to walk without crutches. He ignored the physical therapy exercises he was meant to do at home, and revelled in running around the house and jumping up and down like an idiot. Sherlock thought this reaction ridiculous, but he felt no pressing need to continually remind Moriarty of this. Moriarty, of course, was delighted.

 

This is not to say that their life was full of unmitigated bliss. It had been over a week since the crutches were gone. Over a week. Moriarty had originally managed to convince Mrs. Hudson that it would be best for Natasha to stay at Baker Street until he no longer needed crutches. Mrs. Hudson had reluctantly accepted. After the crutches were gone and the days passed, she started to wonder if Moriarty would ever take his daughter home. She was kind and loving to Natasha, but she was becoming more and more annoyed at being turned into a nanny at this time in her life. Moriarty knew this, but he kept procrastinating. Living with his daughter would mean living with constant strife between Sherlock and Natasha, though perhaps Sherlock would delete it. The truth was, Natasha just didn’t fit into his life. They’d tried and failed rather miserably.

 

Moriarty's problem was that none of the choices were tenable. Nor was the current condition. He loved living alone with Sherlock. He didn’t love making his daughter miserable, but, like Mrs. Hudson, he didn’t want Natasha to live with him. He detested decisions, especially confusing and long-term decisions. Usually he just killed the source of distraction. He couldn’t do that with Sherlock or Natasha. When Natasha rang and woke him up, he looked at who was calling and actually felt a bit sick to his stomach.

 

**Text:**

_Daddy, U there?_

NP

 

**Text:**

_Yes. Of course._

_Where else would I B_

JM

**Text:**

_I don’t no_

_I miss U and it’s been 4ever and she doesn’t say so but I can tell Mrs. Hudson is getting sick of me and I want to come home_

NP

 

**Text:**

_I know_

_I luv U, but things are complicated_

_Sherlock is living here_

_Full time_

_4 good_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Y?_

_I hate him_

_Do U love him more than me?_

NP

 

**Text:**

_No, of course not_

_But I’m not going to ask him 2 leave_

_I’m sorry you hate him but he’s not going anywhere_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Y? He’s a horrible man_

_I can’t see why U love him_

_NP_

 

**Text:**

_I luv U both_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Really? It doesn’t seem that way_

_He’s living with you and I’m not_

_No one wants me_

_Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want me_

Mum doesn’t want me

And U don’t want me

NP

 

**Text:**

_That’s not true._

_I’m just not sure my flat is the best place for U 2 live_

JP

 

**Text:**

_I finally got my cast off_

_Wanna go somewhere?_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Maybe_

_Where?_

NP

 

**Text:**

_U decide._

JP

 

**Text:**

_The London I?_

_I’ve never been_

NP

 

Jim shivered slightly. He did not want to take Natasha to the London Eye. He never wanted to go to the London Eye again. But all he’d said so far was no. He was the grown-up. He could manage.

 

**Text:**

_Sure. When U wanna go?_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Now?_

NP

 

**Text:**

_Don’t U have school?_

JP

 

**Text:**

_It’s vacation week_

_Which you’d know if you cared_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Of course I care._

JP

 

**Text:**

_U have a funny way of showing it_

NP

 

Moriarty felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

 

**Text:**

_I’m sorry, Tash_

_When can I pick U up?_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Anytime_

_Now?_

NP

**Text:**

_Sounds good_

_B there as soon as I can_

_Luv U_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Me too_

NP

 

**Text:**

_C U soon_

JP

 

**Text:**

_Can’t wait to see you._

NP

 

**Text:**

_If we don’t stop texting, I’ll never C you._

_Bye bye_

JP

 

**Text:**

Bye

 

Moriarty felt like he was going to throw up. He’d rather live with his lover than with his eight-year-old daughter. He felt like the worst father in the world.

 

Sherlock appeared in the living room, soaking wet and dressed in _his_ Jim robe. He headed straight for his armchair.

 

“Where are the papers?”

 

“Probably outside the door. I haven’t brought them in yet.”

 

“Why not? You always bring in the papers first thing.”

 

“They’re still there, if you want to fetch them. I haven’t gotten them yet because Natasha called. Mrs. Hudson is getting antsy about being Natasha’s surrogate mother. “

 

“Tell your daughter I’m living with you. That should scare her away. To be honest, I’d much rather she didn’t live here.”

 

“Me too. I don’t want her to live here. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want her. Her mum doesn’t want her. What am I supposed to do?” He leaned forward in his armchair, to be closer to Sherlock.

 

“I’m not the best person to ask, not being a father.”

 

“Well pretend. I need help. I don’t want to hurt her but I’ve been _so_ enjoying the spontaneity of our life together. The two of us. Only the two of us.”

 

“The only logical conclusion is that you have to make a choice.”

 

“There _is_ no choice. I want _you_.”

 

“Well then, you’ve made your decision.”

 

“I’m a monster.”

 

“Maybe, but it’s not monstrous having no decent options.”

 

“You always know what to do.”

 

“Do you really think that, Jim?”

 

Moriarty sighed. “No, but it doesn’t bother you, not knowing what to do. You just make a choice. Sometimes a random choice.”

 

“What else should I do? There’s no point wasting time on unsolvable conundrums.”

 

“I’m taking Tash to the London Eye today.”

 

“Really?! I’d think that would be absolutely the worst place to take her.”

 

“She wants to go. Hey, honey, I’ve got a suggestion for you. Don’t have kids.”

 

“I don’t plan to.”

 

Sherlock got up and fetched the papers in his bathrobe. His own Jim bathrobe.

 

“Every question has an answer. You’ve just got to find it.”

 

“Thanks a lot, Yoda.”

 

“Jim. You’re a big boy. Even for a short man. Figure it out yourself. It’ll come to you.” Sherlock sat back down in his armchair, which was now wet from his robe, and began to read the papers.

 

“I’m going out now. To get Tash and take her on the bloody London Eye.”

 

Sherlock continued reading the paper. “If that’s what you want.”

 

“I also want you to put on some dry clothes so you don’t ruin the upholstery on that chair.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Zen. Non-attachment to personal items. You should consider it sometime.”

 

“I don’t care if I’m Zen or a bloody Scientologist. I do **not** want a mouldy smelly chair in my living room. And that’s still my bathrobe you’re wearing. I happen to know you have one of your own.”

 

Sherlock sighed again and headed toward the bedroom.

 

Moriarty was already dressed in a suit and tie. He always tried to get dressed right after his morning shower. Hanging around in his robe all day made him feel like an old man drinking beer and watching sports on telly. It had been delightful to get dressed without crutches. His leg was much better, but not totally healed. He didn’t want pain to ruin his day with Natasha. He opened the pill bottle, which was almost empty. No matter. He still had an entirely unused pill bottle from the hospital. He poured three pills into his hand, swallowed them dry, and put another handful in his pocket.

 

“Do you still need those? With the cast off and the crutches gone, I thought you’d be healed by now.”

 

“Almost. But I was told to expect some residual pain for a while. And I don’t want to be in pain with Natasha.”

 

“Narcotics are not meant to treat the pain of seeing your daughter. I believe ordinary people manage that sort of pain differently. You’ve been taking more of those pills, not less.”

 

Moriarty sat down on the bed. His leg did actually hurt. Some. A little. When he paid attention to it.

 

“You’re one to talk.”

 

“As you very well know, I use narcotics when I really need to think, or when I’m exceptionally bored. Rarely do I need help thinking, and the problems in my life are challenging. I am rarely bored, as long as I have a case. You, on the other hand, seem to take narcotics all the time.”

 

“You, on the other hand, don’t have a healing broken ankle and a herniated disk.”

 

Sherlock picked up his robe from the floor and snapped it on Moriarty’s ankle.

 

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?”

 

“It was an experiment. You barely flinched. Ten days ago you’d have been screaming in pain.”

 

“Can we do this later? I’ve got enough on my mind as it is. And please don’t leave my, your, whatever. Don’t leave a wet robe on the floor.”

 

Sherlock looked at him long and hard. He hung up the robe and put on the rest of his clothes.

 

Moriarty sighed.

 

“Be careful, Jim. Not only about drugs. About Natasha.”

 

Sherlock so rarely gave advice that Moriarty was temporarily stunned. Was this Sherlock? His mood plummeted fast. In fact, he was pre-devastated. He felt bad now, but expected he’d feel a lot worse with Natasha. He put on what he hoped was a happy face.

 

“Do I look happy?”

 

“You look like a clown. Go. Just go. And leave your absurd goose at home.” Goose was on the bed with her mother, and Moriarty had been absently scritching the back of her neck.

 

“You have to stay here, Goose. I don’t want you flying off the London Eye.” She’d been flying around the apartment lately, and whenever Moriarty took her on walks. She always returned to him, and of course there wasn’t any traffic in the sky, but he was still worried. He was worried a lot lately. Did psychopaths worry? He didn’t think so, but he was concerned. _Stop worrying about worrying, moron, and take your daughter out to ride the London Eye._

 

Moriarty went back to the living room and felt the seat of Sherlock’s arm chair. Not surprisingly, it was wet. He put a kitchen towel over it, and smiled when he imagined how Sherlock would react. Probably he’d just sit in Moriarty’s chair.

 

“Bye, Goose. Bye, love of my life. Back soon.”

 

He wished there were a back door he could use to avoid the manager. There was, actually, but it was dirty and opened into a dirtier alley. So he pushed the lift button and hoped. When the lift doors opened into the lobby, the manager smacked into him as he entered the lift. He nodded an apology.

 

When Moriarty opened the front doors and stepped outside, he was greeted by a delicious breeze and exactly the right temperature. Not too hot or cold. He was the little bear. _Wait. Doesn’t something awful happen to the bear? Or is that Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf? What’s a riding hood, anyway? She doesn’t ride. She walks. Though Little Red Walking Hood does tend to make her sound like a member of a street gang._

 

Moriarty saw a few leaves beginning to turn yellow. London deciduous trees were not the most striking in the world, but they were still lovely and ripe with the coming of autumn. Moriarty looked forward to change, any kind of change. Except his daughter coming to live with him.

 

___ ~ ___

 

 

Moriarty took a taxi to 221B. No one was waiting for him outside. He’d hoped to see Natasha and whisk her off. Instead he had to go upstairs and see Mrs. Hudson.

 

It was strange seeing the flat unoccupied. He saw shadows of Sherlock everywhere. Not that he’d been there more than once or twice, but the place still smelled of Sherlock. It looked like him, too; boxes and cartons and laboratory equipment still occupied every horizontal space in the room. The place was still full of dust. Moriarty felt more than déjà vu. He felt a chill.

 

“Daddy! You came!”

 

“Why wouldn’t I come? I told you I would.”

 

“You’re not always so good about keeping your promises.”

 

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to make an appearance.

 

“Hello, Jim. So nice to see you spending some time with your daughter.”

 

Moriarty wondered if the two had been collaborating against him.

 

“Being off crutches makes it a lot easier.”

 

“How would you know that, dear? It’s been days since your cast and crutches have been gone, but Natasha is still here.” She kissed Natasha on the top of her head and gave her a little hug.

 

“I know. I know. Just give me a teensy weensy bit more time?”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“I don’t think this is the best time or place for this discussion.”

 

“Do you have everything you need, dearie?”

 

“All set. Can I come back here tonight? Sherlock’s living with Daddy now and I hate him and I never want to see him again.”

 

Moriarty felt like being sick again.

 

“Of course, dear. I’ll see you this evening.” She glared at Moriarty. “If that suits.”

 

“Yes. Thank you ever so much for all you’ve done.”

 

“Yes. I’ll be seeing you later, Natasha. Maybe we can make popcorn and watch a movie on the telly. A night out without leaving the house.”

 

“Okay. But I want to go, now. Daddy’s taking me to the London Eye.”

 

“Oh my! I’d be terrified to ride on that thing. You be careful, now. I want to see you back here in one piece.”

 

Natasha giggled.

 

“I’ll try. Thanks for letting me come back tonight. Bye.”

 

__ ~__

 

Seeing Mrs. Hudson had only served to aggravate Moriarty’s guilt. He tried his happy face in the taxi on the way to the London Eye.

 

“Why is your face so weird, Daddy? Do you have a toothache?”

 

He got rid of the smile. He took a few more pills, just in case the others wore off.

 

“London Eye,” said the cabbie. “Couldn’t get me to ride that if you paid me.”

 

Moriarty left a large tip. When they’d gotten out of the cab, he grabbed his daughter’s hand.

 

“Daddy. I’m not a toddler. You don’t need to hold my hand while I walk.”

 

“Oopsies. Must have missed that page of _Being a Father for Dummies._ ”

 

“You’re not a dummy. You’re just weird sometimes.”

 

_Who isn’t._

 

The queue wasn’t particularly long on a school day. Different schools had slightly different schedules. This day seemed to be a day off only for Natasha’s school.

 

They got on the Eye, buckled in, and waited for it to start.

 

“This is going to be so much fun,’ Natasha said.

 

 _This is going to be such a horror show,_ Jim thought. He swallowed a few more pills.

 

Eventually the ride started and Natasha’s view kept expanding as they went up. She was having a great time. She’d never been afraid of heights. Moriarty wasn’t afraid, but he realised he was too high. Not high on the Ferris Wheel. In his head. Being high made him talkative.

 

“Hey, Tash. Know what I did the last time I was on this ride? I bought a life-sized toddler doll and hung it over the edge of the cart. It was hilarious. People were screaming, they were so scared. When I finally leg go, It took the police several minutes to figure out it was a doll, not a person. One detective inspector was mystified.

 

“Why isn’t there any blood?”

 

“Because it’s a bloody doll,” his partner said. It was just so funny, watching people look up in horror at a plastic doll being dropped from the Eye. No one quite understood immediately. Wish you’d been there.”

 

“I’m glad I wasn’t. It doesn’t sound funny at all. It sounds mean and scary. Why would you do that?”

 

“You take life too seriously, Natasha.”

 

Natasha felt a breeze of fear blow through her body.

 

“Actually, there’s something serious I want to talk to you about.”

 

The Ferris Wheel started its second revolution.

 

“What’s that?” Moriarty was having a hard time feeling serious about anything. He wondered if elevation affected the painkillers he’d taken.

 

Natasha fidgeted and wouldn’t look at her father’s face.

 

“I kind of owe you an apology. You know how I made myself sound so pathetic, that no one wanted me?”

 

Moriarty kept silent.

 

“Well, it’s true what I told you, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I wanted to make you feel sorry for me. Remember my best friend Beth?”

 

Moriarty was grateful for his almost eidetic memory.

 

“Sure. The ginger girl. You guys had sleepovers all the time.”

 

“Right. Well, Beth’s parents are both orno, orna, oranath-“

 

"Orthodontists?"

 

"No. they study birds."

 

"Ah. Ornithologists"

 

“Yeah. Well they’re taking off for a year to go around the world and look for wild birds no one’s ever seen before. It’s a satticle.

 

“A what?”

 

“A sabbicle?”

 

“Oh. A sabbatical. They’re both professors?”

 

“Right.” Natasha looked out the side of the cart and was fascinated watching London slowly descend before her eyes.

 

“So, they worked it out with school that Beth could do an independent study year. She just has to write every day about what she’s seen and done.”

 

“Sounds lovely.”

 

“Thing is, they want me to come with.”

 

“For a year? Travelling around the world looking for birds?”

 

“It’s exciting, Daddy. We’re going to the Galapagos Islands.”

 

“That does sound exciting. You said “we.” Is this a done deal?”

 

“Not quite. Her parents want to meet you and get your permission and all that, and we have to ask the school. But I get really good grades. All the time. Without trying. It’s kind of boring. So I think they’ll let me go as long as you say it’s okay.”

 

Rooftops were coming into view as the Ferris Wheel descended. Moriarty thought of the roof at St. Bart’s, where he and Sherlock had almost killed each other. _That’s where I first told Sherlock I loved him. Sort of. God that seems like centuries ago. Life was so much simpler then._

 

“Daddy? Are you listening?”

 

“Of course. A year with your best friend travelling all over the world looking for birds. Do you like Beth’s parents?”

 

“I love them. They’re really sweet and funny and nice to me and Beth’s father makes us special treats and I love staying over and I really want to go with them. Can I, Daddy?”

 

_You have no idea how much you can, honey._

 

“I don’t see any reason why not. Except I’ll miss you like crazy.”

 

“I’ll text, and email you my notes each day, so you know what I’m doing.”

 

“You know what, Tash? That sounds absolutely AMAZING!” Moriarty leaned over and shouted into Natasha’s face.

 

“You’re scaring me. Stop that.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Trying to fall off the Ferris Wheel.”

 

“What makes you think that? I was just, being _so happy_ for you.”

 

“Can you be happy and safer too?”

 

“Why should I? This is the London Eye.” _And my pills are definitely working._ “I want to see what London looks like from the London Eye. He bent over his side of the cart and looked at the birds and antennas. “This is fun.”

 

“No it’s not. It’s terrifying. Please stop.”

 

“You’re no fun at all.” Moriarty leaned over so far he might have fallen off if his daughter hadn’t grabbed him.

 

“What’s wrong with you, Daddy? You’re really weird today.”

 

“Nah.” Moriarty returned to a sitting position. “I’m just having a good time. Did I ever tell you about the lion mascots at Wembley?”

 

“I’m not sure. But if it’s scary, please don’t tell me.”

 

“It’s not scary, Tash. It’s funny.”

 

“I don’t like what you think of as funny. Please don’t tell me.”

 

Moriarty began thinking in double. One side of him thought he was a real douche, telling his daughter true stories that scared her out of her mind. The other side was so high he just wanted to keep talking, about anything. Talking was so much fun.

 

The ride came to an end. Their cart descended very slowly till it was their turn to get off.

 

“Want some ice cream? Pizza? Chinese?”

 

“I’m not really hungry. Can we go talk to Beth’s parents now?”

 

Moriarty was aware that he was not at his most impressive, but Tash travelling around the world for a year with her best friend and family seemed like a gift from the sky.

 

“I guess. Are they home now?”

 

“I think so. They’ve been packing and looking at Google Earth and getting ready. They’re probably home. I can call Beth and see.”

 

Natasha texted her friend, and each text made her smile wider.

 

“Yup. They’re all home. And they’re so happy I’ll be coming. If I can, I mean.”

 

“I don’t see why not. Where do they live?”

 

Natasha told him, and he hailed a taxi. Twenty minutes later they were knocking on Beth’s door. Beth’s kind, absent-minded but brilliant mother let them in.

 

“Natasha!” She gave the girl a big hug. “You must be Natasha’s dad.”

 

“Yeah, I must be. I mean, yes, I am. Jim Price.” Moriarty put out his hand and Beth’s mum shook it.

 

“Camilia Scott. Lovely to meet you. You’re daughter’s told us so much about you.”

 

Moriarty’s stomach sank.

 

“Nothing terrible, I hope.”

 

Camilia smiled. “Nothing any eight-year-old girl wouldn’t say about her dad.”

 

_Think. Concentrate. You can do this._

 

“Thank you so much for inviting Natasha to come with you. It sounds like a brilliant idea. Simply thrilling.”

 

Natasha’s mom gave Moriarty a funny look. Her dad came downstairs to see what was going on. Natasha and Beth disappeared upstairs to Beth’s room. After a long talk, all adults agreed that it made sense for for Natasha to come along.

 

The Scott's house was peaceful, aside from two eight-year-olds giggling nonstop. Tasteful, and expensive. Moriarty felt very much at home. With the furniture. Not necessary with the people. Camilia obviously thought something was a bit off about him. But he wouldn’t be coming along. Camilia thought that although she didn’t quite understand why, they’d be doing the Prices a tremendous favor by letting Natasha tag along.

 

They talked about passports, clothing, everything they could think of that needed to be taken care of. Natasha already had a passport, and Camilia and Beth could take her shopping for the items she didn’t have.

 

“Speaking of shopping. I insist on contributing to the cost of bringing Natasha.”

 

“That’s okay. We can take care of it.” Camilia’s dad spoke up, sounding slightly offended.

 

“I don’t doubt it, but I don’t want you to. Please. Let me help. When Tash was living with her mum, I paid child support. I’m not going to stop now.”

 

“How much were you thinking of? Really, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

 

“I’m sure too, Mr. Scott. This isn’t for you. It’s for me. I paid Natasha’s mum $100,000 a month. Would that be enough to cover aeroplanes, hotels, all that kind of thing?”

 

“Good grief! That’s way too much.” Camilia looked at her husband. “Give us a moment of privacy, please?”

 

“Of course.” Moriarty wasn’t sure where he was supposed to wait, so he asked where the toilet was. He spent a while looking around the bathroom. The medicine cabinet contained a large bottle of pills with directions to take for pain. Moriarty looked at the date the prescription had been filled. Two years ago. He found no newer prescriptions, so he assumed the pills were no longer needed. He read the label. Hydrocodone/paracetemol. It might be a good idea to stock up on painkillers a bit. His prescription had no refills. He locked the door, opened the prescription bottle, and saw it was a bit more than half full. He poured a healthy amount of pills into his hand, making sure the level in the bottle didn’t look significantly lower. He had no real idea why he was doing this. It just seemed like a good idea.

 

When he went back downstairs, the Scotts were waiting for him.

 

“Thank you so much for your generous offer.” Beth’s dad still looked a bit uncomfortable. "As I said, we really don’t need the help, but we can understand why you’d want to contribute to your daughter’s costs. Ten thousand quid a month and no more. We’ll keep track and return whatever we haven’t used when we come home. Bitcoin or PayPal should work.”

 

“Okay. Just don't hesitate to call if you need more money."

 

Silence.

 

"Then we’re all set?” Moriarty was suddenly feeling very nervous. Life had been so much easier when he’d barely saw his daughter.

 

“I guess so.” Beth’s father gave Moriarty a scrutinizing look. He clearly was not comfortable about Natasha’s father. “We’re leaving this Sunday afternoon. We can come round and pick up Natasha if you like.”

 

Moriarty wasn’t certain where Natasha would be Sunday morning.

 

“No need. I’ll drop her off. In fact, I can drive you to the airport.”

 

Natasha and Beth came running downstairs.

 

“So can she come, Mummy?” Beth was fidgeting and pacing, she was so nervous.

 

“Absolutely. Mr. Price is going to bring her here Sunday morning, and drive us to the airport.”

 

“Yay!” Both girls screeched in excitement. “Can Natasha sleep over tonight? Please?”

 

The Scotts looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

 

“Why not?” The girls shrieked again. Moriarty had never seen Natasha so happy. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

 

Natasha hugged her dad and thanked him. Moriarty felt like a probation officer.

 

“See you Sunday. Well, tomorrow I mean. Then Sunday.” He turned toward the Scotts. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re life-savers. I really, truly don’t know what I’d have done if you’d said no.”

 

“Actually, we were concerned about Beth getting bored, so this is a perfect arrangement.” Camilia smiled, still showing a bit of reservation. But the plans were set.

 

“Toodles, honey.” Moriarty gave Natasha a big hug. She squirmed away after a minute to be with Beth. Moriarty felt intense relief and a strange sadness he couldn’t understand.

 

“Ciao, everyone. See you soon.”

 

Moriarty left to hail a taxi home. He felt as if he’d left a chunk of his heart at the Scott’s, but he also felt as if a tremendous load had been taken off his shoulders. He’d ring Mrs. Hudson when he got home. And of course tell Sherlock.

 

Funny. Even though he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, he felt uneasy. He reached in his pocket and took a few of the Scotts’ pills. He was finding that pills were an excellent way to turn off just about anything. His mind wandered to a kill phone call he’d gotten before he’d left home this morning. He began planning details and ensuring the job would work. He was excited; it was going to be one of the most ruthless, complicated, and lucrative jobs he’d ever run into. So a bit of terrorism was involved. So what? Moriarty didn’t have to agree with the politics of every job he took. It had been a long time since he’d been looking forward to such a challenge.

He understood Sherlock a little bit better now. Pills and work were pretty much the same thing. A way to escape. He thought all in all this was not a perfect idea, but he took another of the Scotts’ pills in case the taxi might be old and uncomfortable. He tried to put worrying from his mind and concentrate on the black and white of his job. He was very tired of grey.


	7. Apology to readers

I'm so sorry for those who read this chapter. It was a total fail.

 

I'll fix it and re-post as soon as I've managed to rewrite it in English.


	8. Hit and Run (corrected)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a revised version of the original Chapter 7, which was so rife with errors that I took it down.
> 
> The general plot is the same, but a few details have been changed and multiple errors have been corrected.
> 
> I hope this chapter is actually written in proper English.
> 
> I apologise for the inconvenience.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is about addiction. Please don't read it if it will trigger you.

 

 

 _Okay. This is ridiculous. I haven’t killed anyone or done anything respectable for months. My leg is healed but my soul, if psychopaths have one, is running on fumes. Either I’m going to stay in bed or armchair forever, or it’s time to get out of this absolutely gorgeous but_ boring _flat and do something. I don’t really care if I make the world better or worse. It’s just pathetic to spend the rest of my life in my flat. If I want to get Sherlock off my back, I’ve got to prove to the bastard that, pills or no pills, Sir Dangerous is back._

_To kill or not to kill. I don’t fucking care. To stay in bed or to get up and do something. That’s the question._

_Might as well do something and let the pieces fall where they may. This psychopath is_ ready to go.

_Speaking of going, Tash is leaving in two days. How about being a father for a change and doing something for_ her. _Sir Dangerous is twiddling away his godforsaken life. Which affects not only me, but everyone I know. Stop thinking and soliloquizing. Time to ACT._ This reminded him to take a couple of pills and shove a handful in his pocket. Which his pajamas didn’t have. So he just swallowed them instead.

 

Moriarty couldn’t wait to tell Sherlock that Sir Dangerous was back. He opened the bedroom door, shouted _Sherlock, Sherlock!, SHERLOCK. Okay. He’s out. Fine with me. I’ll surprise him when he comes home._

 

Jim from IT clothes seemed the best choice. It was a semi disguise. _And if I’m_ killing or doing something else, it has to be spectacular. _Pajamas are a bit of a give-away. Hardly blending in. I wonder how many murders or acts of courage and commitment are carried out in pajamas. Sherlock would know. He fucking knows everything. Well, if I have to learn everything from him, good for me. It will be a required course in Sir Dangerous College. I did everything on my own before I met him. I can do it again. I excel at it. I am Sir Dangerous the Phoenix, reborn out of ashes. Take that, world._

 

_So I’m a bit of a drama queen. Drama Queen is good. Lounging in pajamas forever is not. World, watch out._

 

Moriarty put on his slightly used Jim from IT clothes. They stank a bit, but fuck that. _Criminals are supposed to stink. I think_. He spent at least half an hour on his clothes and hair. _Gotta get this right. I’d feel stupid killing or saving the world naked. Hang on. Does Sir Dangerous save the world? No. He destroys it. Well, I’m up for a bit of change. Shake up the brain. But first I’ve got to get my hair right._

 

_Give Natasha a thrilling send-off. Texting her from bed hardly counts. But it’s a good starting point._

 

His last goodbye was to Goose. Not exactly a flaming start, but even psychopaths say goodbye to their daughters. Or they would, if they had daughters. He was not responsible for being a boring mother to a goose.

 

Nonetheless, he kissed Goose goodbye, and stepped out of his own little self into the Great Big World of his hallway. He summoned the lift, walked through the lobby, and didn’t see the manager. Auspicious beginning.

 

He looked for his car, had that second of his stomach falling into his shoes when he couldn’t find it, then remembered the car was in the car park. Better to take an anonymous taxi anyhow, _Do they have seminars for psychopaths?_

 

He pulled his cap down to shade his head, and hailed a taxi. He was about to give the cabbie his destination as 221B Baker Street, then stopped himself just in time and gave the address of a nearby cafe. A bit far to go for a cup of coffee, but that was none of the cabbie’s business.

 

When he arrived at his destination, he was about to give the cabbie a huge tip. _Way to be discreet._ He gave the cabbie a 20% tip, feeling like a cheap bastard, but no way around it.

 

He walked to 221B, repeating to himself that he could do this. A break of several months did not constitute a permanent break of character. He walked proudly down the street, kicking at pebbles as he walked. He accidentally kicked a pebble covered with bubblegum. _Shit. Well, there’s nothing for it._ He snuck into an alley to remove the bubblegum. Easier said than done. Bubblegum was definitely sticky. He removed most of it by scraping his trainer on a rock. The rest, well, no one was perfect, were they?

 

He let himself into Sherlock’s old apartment, realised he’d forgotten to bring garbage bags for Natasha’s stuff, and asked Mrs. Hudson for a few.

 

“Jim, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you for ages. I thought you’d fallen off the end of the earth.”

 

“No. Here I am. Pleasure to see you again. I have a teensy favour to ask.”

 

“Nothing you boys ask for is teensy. But what do you need? A white sheet, perhaps? Halloween’s coming up and I can show you how to make an excellent costume from a white bed sheet.”

 

“Thank you from the very bottom of my heart, but that’s not why I’m here. Do you happen to have any large, heavy duty rubbish bags?”

 

“You’re going to dress her as a rubbish bag?!”

 

Moriarty made a half-smile.

 

“No. I just need some good rubbish bags.”

 

“Well, let me check. What do you need rubbish bags for?”

 

“Rubbish,”

 

“Alright, dearie. Hang on.” Mrs. Hudon disappeared and returned with a huge box of them.

 

“Thank you ever so much, but I doubt I’ll need that many.”

 

“Oh, good. Because I can’t give you that many. This is my only box of rubbish bags. Just take what you need.”

 

Jim began to pull out about ten of them, but cut his finger on the edge of the box.

 

“How the he-, how do you pull these out without cutting yourself? That always happens to me. Do you have a band aid?”

 

“Of course. Just a moment.” She returned with a band aid, which she was tempted to apply herself. “Oh dearie, you’re removing the bags upside-down. How many bags do you need?”

 

“Ten?”

 

“No problem.” Mrs. Hudson pulled out exactly ten bags with a flick of her hand.

 

“How do you _do_ that?”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “I haven’t the time to instruct you right now. A friend’s coming over for lunch. Will these do?”

 

“Magnificently. Thank you ever so much.”

 

“They’re only rubbish bags. But you’re welcome.”

 

Moriarty took the rather messy chunk of bags down to Natasha’s room. It was obvious that Sherlock hadn’t been there in quite a while. He had a way of appropriating things. The place was stock full of items which Moriarty would have thought belonged in an actual rubbish bag. He left Sherlock’s belongings untouched. Only Sherlock would know what was rubbish and what only looked like rubbish.

 

Natasha’s items were obvious. And plentiful. She seemed to have taken nothing but her computer, her phone, and the huge swan plushie. _She’s going to carry this gigantic plushie around the world?_ He wondered what Mrs. Scott would think'

 

He looked for clothes that he thought she'd wear, .books she might want, which immediately ripped through the rubbish bag so he decided to chuck them, and plushies that she might or might not be in love with.

 

Mrs. Hudson came downstairs to check on him. “My, you’re making a racket. Are you planning to leave the rest here? Because I could really use the money from renting out her room.”

 

“No, of course not. I’ll be back after she leaves to clean out the rest. You belong to her species. Am I leaving out anything that only a female would need?”

 

“You men are impossible. Can’t remove a rubbish bag from the box, and can’t tell what your own daughter needs. Adorable, _sometimes_ handy, and completely useless. Let me help, dear.” She went through the bureau drawers, removing socks, underwear, and leggings. “Unless she’s planning to go commando, she’ll need pants.” Mrs. Hudson giggled. “Oh dear me. Did I just say that aloud?” She continued to dump everything Natasha might need on the bed. She looked around at the extraordinary amount of clutter eight-year-old girls collected, and chose a few more items.

 

“This should do nicely. Remember, it all has to fit in a suitcase.”

 

“Backpack. She has a backpack, not a suitcase.”

 

Mrs. Hudson giggled. “You are such a man, dearie. The container doesn’t matter. Concentrate on the contents.” She stopped, looked around, and declared she was done. Then she ran into the bathroom to get Natasha’s toothbrush.

 

“This is disgusting. It goes in my own rubbish. I’m sure she can find a new toothbrush wherever she ends up. Heathrow is full of overpriced travel necessities. Good thing she’s not older. I can’t imagine having to deal with makeup and teenagers’ undies.”

 

She stopped and surveyed her work.

 

“I believe you’re all set, dear. Remember. She’s not going to the moon. Only different parts of the world. Everyone needs toothbrushes. Stop worrying so much. She’ll be fine. Do you mind if I follow you down to Sherlock’s? She might have left a few items there, and I’ve been missing my mixer for weeks.”

 

They went down to Sherlock’s. Mrs. Hudson threw a month’s worth of newspapers off the furniture. She looked under the bed. She checked Sherlock’s bathroom.

 

“Here it is! What on earth could he have been doing with a mixer in the bathroom?”

 

“With Sherlock, you can never tell. I still remember the skull and the decapitated head in the fridge. He likes to boast.”

 

“About human head remains? Ah, I’ve missed him, the dearie. Tell him to come visit sometime. And bring his own rubbish bags. A rubbish truck would come in handy.”

 

The doorbell rang. “Excuse me, dear. I believe that’s my friend Alice. We’re making cookies for brunch.”

 

“Alice! You look wonderful. Whatever it is you’ve done with your hair suits you. I suppose we should get started on the brunch.”

 

“Oh for goodness sake. I’ve gone and left all my ingredients in the auto. I’ll be right back.”

 

Mrs. Hudson waited by the open front door.

 

“Oh my God!!!!”

 

Moriarty rushed downstairs to the door, juggling his rubbish bags. Someone, presumably Alice, was lying in the street. Moriarty dropped his bags on the sidewalk and ran into the street, almost getting hit by several autos himself. The background noise of car horns honking made it seem as if he was performing some sort of odd ballet.

 

He saw a black BMW with a shattered front end zoom out of the street. Presumably, they’d stopped to see what they’d hit, and then drove off. He checked on Alice, who was clearly beyond help, then stopped, pondering his next move. The continued cacophony of horns reminded him that his first job was to get out of the street and onto the sidewalk. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring. Everyone seemed to be shouting “hit and run!”

 

“Did any of you get the number plate?”

 

No one responded except for a teenaged boy who ran over from an open auto boot. “I got it, mister.” He proceeded to reel off the plate to Moriarty, who scribbled it on a piece of wadded up paper from his pocket. By now the vehicle was long gone.

 

Moriarty puzzled about what to do next. His reverse license plate book which he’d “borrowed” from Lestrade was at home. He probably should call the police. Strike that. He definitely should call the police. But Sir Dangerous wanted to solve this himself. He didn’t have Lestrade’s card with him, and explaining everything to a hierarchy of police would take too long.

 

He glanced over at the teenager to thank him. The kid was rummaging through the boot of a car.

 

“That’s your car?”

 

The teenager blushed.

 

“That’s not your car.” Moriarty took a look inside the boot. It was full of an artillery of enough weapons to start a small war.

 

“Don’t touch those! They’re dangerous. You don’t know if they’re locked or loaded and they don’t belong in the hands of a teenaged boy. Want me to report you?”

 

The teenager ran off with alarming speed. Moriarty took a rubbish bag he’d stuffed in his pocket, filled it with the firearms, and started to bring it to his own boot. Then he remembered he’d taken a taxi. Plus a couple of muzzles were sticking out through the bag. He took out two more rubbish bags and triple-bagged the lot of them.

 

He ran back across the street, looking for traffic this time, and picked up the other three bags of Natasha’s stuff. Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the stoop, crying. She looked up at him. He shook his head no, and ran back across the street to fetch the bag of firearms. He was shaking. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out some pills, which he swallowed dry. And nearly choked on in the process.

 

_Think. Think. You’re wasting valuable time. An ordinary citizen would call the police. Sir Dangerous doesn’t need the police. What next?_

 

His mind was curiously blank. He double-checked that Alice was past needing saving. She very clearly was. _What would Sir Dangerous do?_ ”

 

Of course there was no one to ask. He relied on instinct. Moriarty yanked open the door of the car with the boot full of weapons, and looked for the keys. They were in the ignition. _Idiot._ He drove to Natasha’s as if stop signs and traffic lights didn’t exist. He arrived at the normally 15-minute drive in five minutes. When he pressed the doorbell, he was confronted by Beth’s dad.

 

“Can I help you?” He spoke with obvious distaste.

 

“Is Natasha here?”

 

“No. She and Camilia are out shopping for last-minute items. Again, can I help you?”

 

“No. Hang on a minute. Yes.”

 

Mr. Scott’s phone rang. He motioned Moriarty out of the room. Moriarty mouthed “Toilet?”

 

Mr. Scott pointed upstairs. Moriarty found the toilet and locked the door. He felt like sitting down and crying. He’d accomplished nothing except hurting his back lugging around the rubbish bags. He began to get bored and opened the medicine cabinet out of curiosity. He immediately spotted a large prescription bottle. Hydrocodone/paracetamol. _What the hell is hydrocodone?_ He read the instructions on the bottle. “Take one pill every six hours for pain.” Painkillers. He needed to stock up on them; his old prescription was almost finished and the new one had no refills.

 

He opened the bottle and saw it was almost half empty. He looked at the date, to make sure the Scotts didn’t still need the pills. They were two years old, no refills. Probably not. He poured pills into his hand until the bottle looked slightly less than half empty. He put the pills in his pocket along with his own, and carefully returned the bottle to the same place in the medicine cabinet. He then realised his back was still hurting, probably from stress on his herniated disc. He took four of the hydrocodone pills. They were much larger than his own and stuck in his throat. He washed them down with water from the faucet, then splashed some water on his face.

 

He heard Mr. Scott calling and was about to leave the bathroom when he noticed he’d left the medicine cabinet wide open. _I think Sir Dangerous might be getting senile._ He closed the cabinet and went back downstairs.

 

_What were we talking about? Right. Rubbish bags._

 

He tried and failed to smile at Mr. Scott. “I have some rubbish bags in the car. They’re full of Natasha’s stuff. Can you give them to her when she gets home and let her decide what she wants to bring with? She’s not planning on bringing her huge Swan plushie, is she?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. Camilia is handling all that.”

 

“Okay. Good. Excellent. Divine. I’ve got to go. Give me a minute while I go get the bags. If this is too much for you to hold onto, let me know and I’ll keep them at mine.”

 

“I think that would be best.” Mr. Scott slammed the door shut as soon as Moriarty stepped outside. Moriarty saw him staring out the window at a muzzle sticking out of one of the bags. He couldn’t think of anything clever to do or say that would warrant ringing the doorbell again, so he left.

 

Shaken, Moriarty swallowed a few more of his own pills in the car. He drove home, entered the car park, and parked as close to the door leading inside as he could. He dragged the four plastic rubbish bags inside the doorway, and hoped no one was looking. The lift arrived quickly. He pushed the Stop button while he dragged the bags into the lift. Then he depressed Stop and pressed the top button. When the lift stopped, he pushed the stop button again, dragged the bags to his door, and depressed the Stop button once more to unstop the lift. He was praying that the manager wouldn’t walk by. Of course he _did_ walk by. He nodded, then stopped, and proved he had operational vocal chords. “Rubbish day’s tomorrow. You can’t leave those in the hall all night. It’s a fire hazard.”

 

“Oh. I’m so dreadfully sorry. I’ll bring them inside till tomorrow.” The manager nodded and walked down the hall. Moriarty’s hall. Nothing to be done. He unlocked his door and shoved the plastic bags inside, closing the door behind him. They were heavy. His back hurt. He swallowed a few more pills, dry. He brought the bag of firearms into his bedroom, and left Natasha’s things by the door. He returned to the front door, sat down on the floor and leaned his back straight against the door. Sir Dangerous had accomplished basically nothing except stealing firearms and a car. Any ordinary person could have done the same. Mission unaccomplished. Clearly Sir Dangerous was out of practice and required a few more safety runs before he moved on to a real job.

 

He tried to catch his breath until he heard Sherlock emerge from the library.

 

“What the bloody hell? What’s in those bags?”

 

“Natasha’s stuff from Mrs. Hudson’s.”

 

“And the bag of firearms in our bedroom?

 

“Firearms.”

 

“Natasha had that many firearms in her room at Mrs. Hudson’s?”

 

“No. They’re from somewhere else.” He popped a few more pills. He hated confrontation.

 

“Jim. I think you’re in serious trouble. Tell me exactly what happened.”

 

Moriarty told him the entire story.

 

“I count twelve mistakes that could land you or the both of us in prison. What the hell were you thinking of? Or were you thinking at all with your head so full of drugs? **Never ever break the law while you’re under the influence of any substance.** Tell me if I’ve got any of these mistakes wrong.

 

“One. You took a taxi to Mrs. Hudson’s. The driver could recognize you. Knowing you, I assume you paid with a credit card, telling the cabbie exactly who you are.

 

“Two. You witnessed a hit and run, and instead of calling the police, you tried to handle it yourself. Witnessing a crime and not calling the police makes you an accessory after the fact. You left the victim dead in the street. Not suspicious at all.

 

“Three. You got a partial on the license plate. You should have stopped then and there and called the police with the partial.

 

“Four. You relied on a **bloody kid** to give you the license plate. You don’t know his age. You assumed. He could have been a minor. You involved him as an accessory after the fact too. And if he was a minor, you added a slew of additional charges to your list of crimes.

 

“Five. You illegally searched his car and found contraband. Again, you should have called the police. You committed a very serious crime by not doing so.

 

“Six. **You fucking stole illegal firearms in public.** I can understand why you didn’t call the police because it would have entailed turning yourself in for a multitude of crimes. None of which were committed for any good reason in the first place.

 

“Seven. You broke into a car and stole what you found. Including the car. Did it not occur to you that stolen cars are investigated? Again, you set a record for as many botched crimes as possible in what, ten or fifteen minutes? There may have been witnesses. Did you check? No. Do you know what witnesses are supposed to do? **Call the bloody police.**

 

“Eight. You drove a stolen car containing stolen goods to the family who’s taking Natasha around the world. The father came dangerously close to figuring out the truth. Or he did figure it out but didn’t want to get involved. You might have ruined an entire year of your daughter’s life and undone your incredible luck bumping right into a solution for not wanting her here. That would not sound very good in court. And it might make Mr. Scott feel his civic duty and act on it.

 

“Nine. You drove a stolen car full of serious stolen goods **right to our home**.

 

“Ten. You left the stolen car, with its original license plates, in our car park.

 

“Eleven. You ran into the manager whilst in possession of stolen firearms, and assumed he was telling you the truth. Tomorrow is _not_ rubbish day. Rubbish never gets picked up on the weekend.

 

“Twelve. **You brought the bloody stolen guns _into_ _our home. Thus involving me, at the very least, as a material witness.”_**

“How did I do? Did I miss anything?”

 

Moriarty was silent.

 

“Oh yes. I did miss something. You did all this **under the influence of serious narcotics** **which you had no business taking in the first place.** For all I know, you stole some of them.”

 

Moriarty’s face turned a whiter shade of pale*

 

“You did steal some. Where from?”

 

“The Scotts,” Moriarty mumbled.

 

“Say again?”

 

“The Scotts! The family who’s planning to take Natasha with them on their expedition around the world.”

 

Sherlock lowered his head and held it in his hands.

 

“You didn’t. You stole drugs from the family who’s going to be responsible for your daughter for an entire year? Are you insane? Or just stupid? You collected all your bags to shove them in your own boot. Then you remembered you’d taken a taxi. You went **and fetched them**. Mr. Scott may have witnessed everything. The only thing you could have done worse would have been to kill him.”

 

Sherlock sighed loudly.

 

“What on earth could have possessed you to make so many dangerously bad decisions so quickly? Oh, I know. **You tried to do what you thought was the right thing but you were wrong every step of the way because you were HIGH ON BLOODY NARCOTICS.** I think I’d let you suffer the consequences if you hadn’t inadvertently involved me. **YOU ARE SO FUCKING STUPID.** What a waste of a beautiful brain.”

 

For once, Moriarty couldn’t think of anything to say. Sherlock was right. He’d been a complete moron. And the worst of it was, nothing he’d done had helped anyone.

 

“Oh. I forgot. I involved Mrs. Hudson too.”

 

“I’m going to call Mycroft and see if he can possibly fix this. I don’t want to call him from the bedroom. Take your idiotic self there and keep the bloody door shut. I’ll let you know when you can come back.” Sherlock sighed again. “Honestly, I didn’t think you were capable of such thoughtless, _ordinary_ behavior.”

 

Moriarty got up and walked unsteadily to the bedroom. First, he shut the door. It was always left unlocked. Next, he took the remaining pills from his jacket pocket, lint and all, and tried to swallow them dry. He only had two of the Scotts’ pills left, but they were much larger than his. He remembered what had happened at the Scotts. He took the pills in the bathroom to wash them down with water from a filthy toothbrush cup. His mouth still tasted acrid. Then he called for Goose. Goose hated confrontation and was probably hiding somewhere. Fortunately, she’d chosen to hide in the bathtub. He shut off the dripping faucet. No need to open the verboten bedroom door.

 

He undressed, changed into pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, and got into bed. He immediately got out of bed to take some more pills. He emptied the five or six left in his old bottle, along with a couple of leftover pills he’d nicked from the Scotts, thus destroying evidence. _At least I did something right._

  
  
He realised after he swallowed them that flushing the pills down the toilet would have produced the same effect.

 

Thinking of the toilet made him realise that he needed to use it. On his way out of the bathroom, he took the bag of hospital pills from the back of the medicine cabinet and ripped the bag open without bothering to see if it had been tampered with. _Thank you honey for your honesty_ , He tried to put the pill bottle into his pocket. Eventually he remembered that his pajamas didn’t have pockets. He brought the bottle of pills and the toothpaste-stained plastic cup filled with tap water into the bedroom. He set them both on the bedside table. A soaking wet Goose was waiting for him.

 

He held Goose tightly, unmindful of her dripping feathers, and pushed his face into her soft body.

 

 _Sir Dangerous is Dead_ was his last thought before he passed out.

 

 

*Whiter Shade of Pale  
Procol Harum


	9. Unexpected Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bits of the old Moriarty begin to resurface.
> 
> He finds he's no longer terribly fond of painkillers.
> 
> Moriarty finds a new use for his disguises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that recovery from opioid addiction is a prolonged and painful experience, and doesn't happen overnight. But to the honest, I just couldn't do that to Moriarty anymore. So I am taking creative license and squishing a long, terrible experience into an inappropriately short time. This is totally unrealistic, and I hope I haven't offended anyone who has had to fight addiction or watch loved ones do the same.
> 
> If you're flirting with this problem yourself, please consider stopping before it gets worse. If a loved one has an addiction, please be kind, supportive, and patient. It's a personal decision and process that can't be forced on someone else. Addiction is an illness, like alcoholism, and doesn't respond well to judgement or wishful thinking.
> 
> As always, this is only my opinion and I might be totally wrong. If so, I'm glad. I mean no offense to anyone, and I have no business telling anyone what to do. That said, please be safe, and be gentle with loved ones. I hope you enjoy this chapter

 

 

It was dark by the time Sherlock entered the bedroom. Without knocking. Not that it would have mattered if he’d bashed down the door. He found exactly what he’d expected. A sprawled out Moriarty, lying on his back in bed with one foot hanging off. Upon further inspection, he found what he’d hoped he wouldn’t. Vomit and drool were hardened next to Moriarty’s mouth. He felt for a pulse and found one immediately. Sherlock’s heart began beating normally. He was thoroughly pissed at Moriarty, but he didn’t want him dead. He rolled the disgusting, malodorous excuse for a human on his side, so if he vomited again, he wouldn’t choke on it and die. Sherlock expected Moriarty would be dead to the world for quite some time to come, but he wasn’t. He immediately sat up and shouted “What the fuck?”

 

“You’ve just experienced one of the less pleasant aspects of opioid addiction. Clean your bloody mouth.”

 

“My mouth is bleeding?”

 

Sherlock sighed, “No, your mouth is in need of cleaning.”

 

Moriarty rubbed a tissue around his mouth. He felt hardened, crusty material that didn’t come off with a tissue. He stuck another few tissues in his cup of water and tried again. He removed quite a bit of disgusting material. It smelled and looked revolting. He wet a few more tissues to remove the last few scraps, scrunched them together, and tossed the lot in a small rubbish bin across the room. His aim was perfect, but his mouth tasted like a public toilet.

 

“What happened?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “You don’t remember?”

 

Moriarty thought hard. Suddenly it all came back to him. He leaned over with his head in his hands.

 

“So it wasn’t just a nightmare.”

 

“It was, but not the kind you’re referring to. I have to ask you a few questions. What day of the week is it?”

 

“Friday. Or maybe Saturday. I don’t know how long I was out for.”

 

“Who is the current Prime Minister?”

 

“I’m not sure that we have one. Theresa May just resigned, and her replacement hasn’t been determined yet. I believe Boris Johnson is the favoured candidate?”

 

“Oh all right. If you know all that, your left brain seems to be functioning fine.”

 

Sherlock took a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket.

 

“Draw a circle.”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you having trouble hearing me? _Draw a circle.”_

 

Moriarty made a small reference dot, drew a few more as if he were drawing a clock, and connected them, resulting in a reasonable approximation of a circle. If he missed a spot, he’d erase his mistake and try again. He came up with a decent circle, if marred by erasure marks. He drew Sherlock’s ridiculous cap on the top, and added a frowny face.

 

“Good enough for you?”

 

“Jim. I’m asking these questions to help you. I needed to determine if you’re brain damaged.”

 

“Why the hell would I be brain damaged?”

 

“Maybe because you’ve been eating painkillers as if they were M&M’s. And you screwed up today in a way I thought would be impossible.”

 

Moriarty blushed. “Did Mycroft manage to fix it?”

 

“He fixed the obvious problems and assured me he’d take care of the minor ones if necessary. I think he was over the moon that I hadn’t called about myself.”

 

Sherlock told Moriarty he needed to brush his teeth. Moriarty concurred. He did a very thorough job, then swore through a mouthful of toothpaste when he couldn’t find the toothbrush cup. He turned on the faucet, filled his mouth with tap water, and gargled. Then he did the same with mouthwash. Which tasted horrible, but seemed to work. He found it difficult to judge the smell of his own mouth. He breathed into his hand and sniffed. _Nothing. I think that’s for determining fevers._ He returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock joined him, at a distance.

 

“I gather you don’t approve of my pills habit.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“After today, not particularly. In fact, I feel thoroughly humiliated, chastened, disgraced, mortified, and ashamed. Good enough for you? I could come up with a few more synonyms if you like.”

 

“You know you easily could have ended up brain dead. Or just plain dead, having choked to death on your own vomit.”

 

“Which you know from past experience. Except the bits about being brain dead or plain dead.”

 

“It’s no joke. I’m very well acquainted with the side effects of narcotics. I’ve never used them for as long as you have. Why else do you think I’ve been bothering you about how many pills you’ve been taking?”

 

“Jealousy? Annoyance? A bad case of Sherlockism?”

 

“I’m going to need to rethink the part about your left brain being undamaged.”

 

“But you see the appeal?”

 

“Of course. I also see the results. I suggest a ceremonial funeral.”

 

"I agree."

 

The two of them walked to the bathroom and dumped the pills in the toilet.

 

"Any last words?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Yea,  _though I walk through the valley_  of the shadow of  _death_ ,"

 

Sherlock flushed the toilet. They returned to bed. Moriarty inhaled a flutter of down which rose into the air when they both plopped on the bed at the same time. He sneezed.

 

"Bless you."

 

"Silly me. I always sneeze at funerals. It's _so_ embarrassing. Does my breath smell better?”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“Does my breath smell better?”

 

Sherlock leaned over, closer to Moriarty’s face.

 

“Breathe out.”

 

Moriarty cooperated.

 

“Your breath smells fine.”

 

Moriarty put a hand on either side of Sherlock’s face. He nibbled on the side of his mouth. Then he gently kissed his lips. Finally he pulled Sherlock close and engaged him in a real kiss. A long kiss. He even remember to scritch Sherlock’s scalp.

 

“What was _that_ all about?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“If you think you’re going to get out of all of this through sex, you’re wrong.”

 

“I’m not thinking that. I’m thinking of how much I love you, and how grateful I am that you didn’t leave me to die. Did I kill our relationship, too? Is kissing now out of bounds?”

 

Sherlock answered by kissing Moriarty long and hard. “I’m just happy I haven’t lost you, Jim.”

 

“I’m like herpes. Bloody hard to get rid of.”

 

He pushed Sherlock down on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. With each button, he licked, nibbled, and kissed Sherlock’s chest.

 

“Why do you always wear shirts with buttons?”

 

“I like them.” Sherlock was a bit out of breath.

 

“Do you like the buttons?”

 

“Indifferent.”

 

Moriarty ripped open Sherlock's remaining buttons and threw them on the floor. He bit Sherlock’s nipples, rather hard, then went to work removing his trousers and pants. Pretty soon Sherlock was naked, except for his shoes and socks. He looked absurd. Moriarty removed them. He lay down on top of Sherlock, fully dressed but still quite enjoyable. He resumed kissing Sherlock’s chest, moving painstakingly down as he did so. Sherlock moaned.

 

Moriarty slowed down as he approached Sherlock’s genitals. He kissed around them. Inner thighs. Perineum. Pubic hair. _Bleh. Not doing that again._ He missed nothing. Sherlock moaned. Moriarty licked the tip of his penis, then massaged underneath. He lifted Sherlock’s ass, massaged it, and returned to his cock. He slowly licked his way down, then took it in his mouth. He traced Sherlock’s ass with his fingers, then spat on a finger and inserted it as far as possible. He moved his finger gently in and out, fucking Sherlock’s ass with his finger while he fucked his cock with his mouth. He would have made an excellent understudy for _Deep Throat._

 

He licked and caressed Sherlock, taking his time, making the same motions in his ass. Sherlock moaned louder. Moriarty kept his mouth busy, and slow. Each new lick elicited a slightly louder moan. When he felt Sherlock about to come, he removed his finger, squeezed Sherlock’s ass with both hands, and mouthed his cock harder. Sherlock groaned as he came into Moriarty’s mouth. Moriarty licked him gently and swallowed. They lay together for a minute without moving.

 

Finally Sherlock slipped out of Moriarty’s mouth. He lay a hand behind each of Moriarty’s shoulders and pushed down. Moriarty was breathing almost as hard as Sherlock. But his cock refused to harden. He rutted against Sherlock’s stomach, to no avail. He touched himself under his clothes. The feeling was delicious, but his cock still refused to harden. He gave up, turned onto his side, and pushed Sherlock into the same position. They spooned. Moriarty began to move against Sherlock. It felt lovely, but his body refused to respond in the normal way.

 

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine in a few days, I promise. Another glorious effect of narcotics.”

 

“They should print that on the label.”

 

Sherlock laughed. He reached over to open his bedside table and felt around for a small prescription bottle, which he found and gave to Moriarty.

 

“Won’t help. And I’m not supposed to take them. Arrhythmia. Usually I don’t need them. Do you?”

 

Sherlock ignored him. “Nothing for it but to wait.” Sherlock smiled. “Poor me. Guess I’ll have to be the centre of attention for a while.”

 

“Truly tragic. Had I but known...”

 

“You’d have acted exactly the same.”

 

“Probably so. Hardly the end of the world.”

 

“Promise me one thing, Jim.”

 

Had Sherlock been watching, Moriarty would have raised an eyebrow.

 

“Lay off the pills.”

 

Moriarty laughed. “Don’t think that will be a problem.”

 

Sherlock turned over and stared at Moriarty. “But it will be.”

 

Moriarty got his chance to raise an eyebrow.

 

“Withdrawal's a bitch.”

 

“You think I’ll go through withdrawal from a few weeks of pills?”

 

“Months. Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

 

“Is it better to taper off?”

 

“ **No.** You’d just taper right back up.”

 

“Will you bring me lots of cups of tea?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Will you let up being such a Sherlock?”

 

“Never. You know, I’m proud of you.”

 

“Whatever for?”

 

“For taking my advice. Lots of people wouldn’t do that.”

 

“They’re crazy. Want to go watch some telly?”

 

“Sounds just about right.”

 

“Will you bring me a cup of tea?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“With a dash of Glenfiddish?”

 

“A small dash.”

 

“Needs must. Do I have to cut that out, too?”

 

“Doubt it. Just give yourself a little time.”

 

“Okay. Put on some clothes, and I’ll see you on the telly couch.”

 

“Jim?”

 

“What?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I know. I love you too.”

___ ~___

 

 

Sherlock was asleep. Moriarty had an idea. A silly idea, but since when had he been afraid of being silly?

 

He snuck out of bed. Sherlock was still asleep. _So far, so good._ He rummaged through his disguises and found what he was looking for. It had been a long time since he’d used them, and he was unwilling to admit he’d forgotten what was in his stock. He got undressed and dumped his clothes on the floor. _Oopsies._ _Thank god for dry-cleaning._ He put on his lacy black apron, nothing underneath, and was embarrassed to find it felt nice. He searched for a top. He found several black bras with sewn-in prosthetics. _I remember buying these_. He’d felt rather ashamed because all the rest of the shop customers had been women with mastectomies. He put on the largest bra, and wished there were a mirror in his closet. Oh well.

 

Next came fishnet leggings, “fuck me” shoes, and and nothing else. He thought his costume was perfect as it was. He grabbed a lipstick and snuck out of the closet into the bathroom. He looked at himself from various angles and was quite pleased. He applied the lipstick. Then remembered he was bollocks at that. He looked like a vampire clown. He scrubbed off the lipstick, mussed up his hair until it looked vaguely feminine, and decided he was ready.

 

Now what? He wanted to jump Sherlock’s bones, but a quick check determined that while his head might be ready, other parts of his body might not have recovered so quickly. _I’d never have taken the pills if I’d known_ this _would happen. Am I going to be a bloody eunuch for life?_ He remembered Sherlock had said it would take a few days. But he was Moriarty. He was special. Certainly _ordinary_ rules didn’t apply to him. Maybe. He tried devoting more effort to the exercise, and was quite pleased with the reaction. In fact, it was difficult to stop.

 

Moriarty pondered his next move. Of course choice #1 was to flop on Sherlock with all his strength. Not a great idea. Sherlock would be sleepy, annoyed, and would doubtless fall back asleep. He decided if he was dressed like a maid, he might as well act like one. He cleaned the kitchen floor, bare-assed, his knees turning red. _Enough of that. Sherlock would never notice a clean floor anyhow._ He put away all the detritus on the kitchen counters, and was temporarily stumped. He put some of what he found in the sink, a few items back in the cupboards, and most of it in the dishwasher. He washed, dried, and put away the really bad offenders that had been in the sink. Not exactly an advert for Mr. Clean, whose earring had always puzzled him, but a definite improvement. He stepped back and surveyed his work. Good enough for a fake maid.

 

He proceeded to make a pile of all the junk on the floor and furniture in the living area. Finding this was more than he could carry at once, he returned to the kitchen to search for heavy duty rubbish bags. _Did I really let all this accumulate in my own home? Did I fire the cleaning service?_ Eventually he found a box of rubbish bags next to the light bulbs. He tore off a few, not needing a lesson from Mrs. Hudson on how to do so, and brought them into the living room. He’d already filled two bags, and was only halfway through the house. He thought about tossing them out the door, then imagined the manager and thought the better of it. He looked at his phone, which he’d stuffed into an apron pocket. It was Friday. Too chancy to leave the bags in the hall. He chucked them in what used to be Natalie’s room, and hoped he would remember to get rid of them before the flat started to stink of dead raccoons. He took a brief glance in the full-length mirror. He thought he looked rather fetching. He immediately wished he was Sherlock and could delete that thought.

 

After he finished straightening up, he noticed his back had started to hurt. _Sir Dangerous can endure infinite pain. It’s an integral part of him._ He kept telling himself that until he gave up thinking of pills. He should have asked Sherlock to take a photograph of him with vomit caked on his mouth. That would have been an excellent deterrent. He was annoyed no end that part of him still wanted pills. Why? To make an utter idiot of himself again? The funeral had been a good idea, but not enough. He imagined himself sprawled on the floor, apron shoved up to his waist, and both his face and the carpet covered with vomit. Oh, and an empty bottle of pills in his hand. He took an inner Polaroid, for current and future reference. It was an efficient image.

 

He heard sounds from the bedroom. He quickly tidied up the library, returned to the kitchen, and put up some coffee. Whilst waiting, he found a pad of paper and a pencil. He drew a few sketches of himself as a maid. Not bad. It really looked like him. He tossed them in with the rubbish and waited for the coffee. He took a few mugs from the cabinets, then immediately put them back. He walked quietly over to his display case, and collected two cups, two saucers, two biscuit plates and a tray. _Can I do this? I’m going to be really angry if I drop these and break them._

 

He walked like a snail holding a plate of valuable, valuable what? Whatever it was that snails valued. He was glad he’d cleaned up the floor first. He set the tray on the dining room table, fetched a sugar bowl and a cream pitcher, and arranged them with the rest of the crockery.

 

They both took their coffee black, though Sherlock did like sugar. The totally unnecessary cream pitcher completed a lovely setting. Then he remembered that an empty sugar bowl would no doubt infuriate Sherlock. He brought the bowl into the kitchen, half-filled it with sugar, and set it back in its place. _I must admit this is quite lovely. Never would have thought I was capable of this sort of thing._ He heard the shower running. _Quick. What am I leaving out? A feather duster!_

 

Moriarty seriously doubted that he owned a feather duster, but he might as well take a look. After five minutes of searching _(good thing Sherlock likes long showers)_ he found one behind the dishwasher soap in the cabinet under the sink. _What was I thinking of? Brushing the crumbs off with a feather duster and declaring the dishes clean?_ The feather duster was more dust than feathers. He began to clean it. It was dirtier than he’d thought. When at least the outside looked clean, he attempted to put the feather duster in an apron pocket. Goose flew up and began to rub against it, making her goose purr sounds. _No. She couldn’t possibly think she was in love with a feather duster._ But she was probably hungry and thirsty. He found two used goose plates pushed up against a wall.He washed them, dried them with a new dish towel, and filled them.

 

The picture window was next. Was he actually going to polish it? He came up with the far superior idea of looking at the view. _I could destroy it all with a few blocks of C4. But why? Targets require reasons to destroy. Besides, my view would suffer._ The feather duster fell out of his apron pocket, and as he bent over to retrieve it, he heard what could only be deep laughter from Sherlock.

 

He stood up and turned around. Sherlock was wearing his bathrobe, laughing so hard it seemed an effort for him to remain standing.

 

 _It’s not_ that _funny._ Then he remembered that bending over doubtless gave Sherlock an excellent view of his buttocks. He supposed it actually was that funny. He turned to face Sherlock, trying to look as coquettish as possible.

 

“Why good morrrning, master. I’m so terribly sorry if I’ve woken or otherwise discomfited you.”

 

He made a small curtsey _._

 

“Would you enjoy a cup of coffee? I’d be ever so happy to pour you one.”

 

Sherlock was now chuckling.

 

Moriarty fetched the carafe from the coffee maker and poured each of them a cup. He added two sugars to Sherlock’s.

 

“Oh my goodness. How forgetful of me. I should have asked ‘coffee, tea, or me?’ Beg pardon.”

 

“Coffee, a brief hiatus, then you.”

 

Moriarty met Sherlock’s eyes, fluttered his eyelashes, and caused Sherlock’s laughter to start up all over again.

 

“Have I displeased you, master?”

 

Sherlock’s entire body was shaking with laughter.

 

“Not in the slightest. No need for worry, my dear girl. Have you noticed that your goose seems to be in love with your feather duster?”

 

Goose did, in fact, seem to be quite enamoured. She'd stolen it from the apron pocket and was rubbing her face against it.

 

“Just as well. To be honest, I’m terrible at dusting. I’m sure Goose will do a better job. Come, have some coffee with me. Oh my goodness. There I go being presumptuous again.” He tittered. “Imagine. Assuming the master would take coffee with the help.”

 

Sherlock sat down at the table and took a sip of coffee. He made an audible “ahh” noise. “Miss Moriarty, would you do me the unmitigated pleasure of taking coffee with me?”

 

“Oh dear. You haven’t gotten any inappropriate ideas, have you?”

 

“None at all. I assure you, everything I’ve been thinking has been quite appropriate. Come join me for coffee.”

 

Moriarty sat on the chair opposite Sherlock and immediately jumped up again.

 

“Cold!”

 

“Perhaps a cushion would help?”

 

Sherlock fetched a cushion from the armchair and put it on Moriarty’s chair. The armchair was quite a bit larger than the dining room chair, and it took Moriarty several attempts to sit on it without knocking it off. Finally he held onto the table, pushed himself backwards, and jumped into the chair.

 

“Beg pardon, master. That was very un-ladylike, I’m sure.”

 

To add to the un-ladylikeness of the situation, Moriarty reached for his coffee and took a huge gulp.

 

“Gahhh! Hot!”

 

Sherlock started laughing again.

 

“Really sir, if I might be so bold, gentlemen do not laugh at ladies in distress.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Sherlock got up from his chair, walked around the table, and kissed Moriarty.

 

“Shall we skip the coffee and go directly to the bedroom?”

 

“Master! Surely you know that’s against the rules. Unless you have a _Get out of jail free_ card.”

 

“Bollocks! I left it in the bedroom. Would you mind helping me look for it?”

 

“Oh dear. I really don’t know if that’s appropriate, and wouldn’t you know, I’ve left my _Maid for Dummies_ book in the bedroom as well. Just a minute, please.”

 

Moriarty leaned over the table and picked up his coffee cup, thus giving Sherlock an excellent view of his ass. _Oh dear. Do I stink? I really ought to have taken a shower first._

 

“Delicious dessert.” Sherlock proved his point by licking Moriarty’s ass. Moriarty was in the middle of a large gulp of slightly cooled coffee, most of which spilled onto the table.

 

“Oh fiddly sticks. I’m quite sure that’s not in my _Maid for Dummies_.”

 

He took another large gulp of his coffee, burped, and burst out laughing, causing the coffee to spurt out of his mouth.

 

“Perhaps it would be wise to proceed directly to the bedroom.”

 

He stood up, and they both noticed the apron was considerably tented in the middle.

 

Moriarty blushed. “Oh my dear lord, I seem to have forgotten to remove my dildo. It’s rather tight. Could you possibly lend a hand?”

 

Sherlock did, which only served to increase the problem. Which of course set him off laughing again.

 

“ _Master!_ I’ve already told you it’s quite rude to laugh at a lady’s predicament. Haven’t you ever heard of cross-dressing household help? It’s quite popular in the right circles, and very politically incorrect to find it amusing.”

 

“Stop making me laugh or I’ll fall over.”

 

“Enough,” Moriarty said in his regular voice. “Get your ass into the bedroom.”

 

Sherlock complied.

 

Moriarty proved he was now free of immediate consequence of narcotics. Which pleased him no end. Sherlock reproduced the events of the last night, changing places with Moriarty. Both events proved quite pleasurable for both men.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Ummmm. What?”

 

“I think I love you even more now.”

 

“Agreed. But never forget that I also hate you more than I used to.”

 

Moriarty was about to reply when he noticed Sherlock had fallen back asleep again. He held Sherlock tight and was extremely glad that he hadn’t died from opioid abuse.

 

 

THE END


End file.
